Feeling Strange and Looking Rotten
by scarlettshazam
Summary: Tweek Tweak: Batshit insane. Craig Tucker: Dull as dull can be. Combining them is a little like combining sodium and water. Inevitable explosion. Creek.
1. It Makes Me Jitter

**Chapter Track: Please Don't Touch – Polly Scattergood**

**Characters belong to Matt & Trey. Title is from above song.**

Craig Tucker always has his headphones in.

Not that I'm staring or anything but—okay, Jesus, fine, I am staring. I don't know why. He's boring and mean and he flips me off all the time. I know he flips everybody off, but I feel like he's targeting me. And I know I'm paranoid but I still feel that way because I'm fucking paranoid.

I wonder what he's always listening to. What kind of music do assholes listen to?

The worst part about this whole thing is that I desperately want to screw him.

Sex is nice. It calms me down for a little. Not very long, but it's like weed. I don't need it, really, but it chills me out and if only for a few minutes or an hour or whatever, stops my worrying and fears and everything that drives me to edge. I don't think anybody knows that I have sex. I think they all think I'm like, asexual, or something. When I sit with Stan Marsh and those guys at lunch they'll start talking about it, and talk right over me. I mean, I guess I can hardly get my fucking words out, anyway. But Kyle will say something like, "What about Tweek?"

And Cartman—words cannot express how much I fucking hate Eric Cartman—will be all, "You can't fuck somebody if you don't have working parts. He definitely doesn't have a dick. I'd say Tweek has a vag but I don't think he has one of those, either."

And because I'm so fucking stupid, I'll just look down at my food and try to eat something. Or I'll stand up and walk away and go across the street where I'm not on school grounds and I can smoke. I smoke too much.

Sometimes Kenny McCormick comes out and smokes with me. He's okay. Most of the time we don't even speak to each other. He just sits next to me and finishes his cigarette and leaves. I guess sometimes he sells me my weed, too, but we don't talk then, either. I just hand him the crumpled tips I make at Harbucks and he hands me the plastic baggy of the good stuff.

And he knows I'm not some weird sexless kid or whatever those assholes think. But it's fucking Kenny. He's like psychic or something, and nobody pays attention to him, either.

Kenny claps me on the shoulder and greets heartily, "_Hello, Tweek!"_

His voice is muffled by the bandana he wears over his mouth, but I shriek anyway, because it's fucking surprising. I shout back at him, "Jesus f-fucking Christ, Kenny, what the fuck?"

He just laughs, of course. Kenny thinks it's funny to get a reaction out of me. He chuckles a little more and then asks me, "So, thinking about doing Tucker, are we?"

"Ngh- what?" I manage to stammer out. How does he know this kind of shit? It's fucking creepy and I don't like it. I don't like having people in my head. There isn't enough room. There's hardly enough room for me in my own head.

Kenny's glance slides over to Craig, who's at his locker, still with his headphones in. Craig notices that we're both staring at him. He rolls his eyes, lifts his middle finger, and slams his locker before stalking off down the hallway, hands in pockets.

"Dude, argh- fuck you," I say.

Kenny's smirking underneath his bandana. I can tell by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. He says, "Tweek, my man, you've got to stop making yourself such an easy target. Like, maybe not undressing Craig with your eyes whenever he's around."

"I c-can't fucking help it," I manage to spit out.

"You could always try talking to him," suggests Kenny.

"_Jesus! No way_," I protest.

"Why?" Kenny raises his brows, "Craig's a douchebag. I'm sure he'll find it flattering that _somebody_ has a boner for him. Maybe then he won't have to jack off to the sound of his own misery."

I just kind of stare at Kenny. Okay, yeah, Craig's an asshole, but he's a good-looking asshole. I can't be the only one that has fantasies involving our bodies tangled together, me inside him, his hands pulling at my hair, I-

"I didn't mean that you had to get a boner for him _here_, dude," Kenny laughs.

I look down.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ aw _shit fuck damn it. _Why does my body do shit like this to me? I let my head get away from me and then it's like my body does whatever it wants do, regardless of where I am or what would be appropriate. My therapist has talked to me about this. I have to remember that I'm in control. But I'm not. I'm _not._

I pull at my hair and walk swiftly away from Kenny without closing my locker. Jesus Christ, Tweek, I think to myself as I take anxious steps down the hall. Fucking _school_ is not the place to get a hard on. Of all the things my body has done…

…You know those high movies where the main dude sees the girl of his dreams and she's like all sparkly and shit? I hate those movies- but that's not the point.

That's kind of what it's like when I stare at Craig Tucker. Not that he's glittery, because he's like, the anti-glittery. But he makes me _feel_ glittery. Fuck, that doesn't make any sense. I never make sense.

I burst into the upstairs guys' bathroom. I hate public restrooms – _especially_ men's (women's are sometimes okay because they have sofas and nice soap and softer paper towels), but this was kind of an emergency. I can't go to Ceramics with a boner. Oh, fuck, no. I'm pretty used to humiliating myself but that is just something I can't handle.

Jesus.

To everybody else, it seems like I can't handle anything. Sometimes when Cartman calls me names, like 'psycho' or 'tweeker' or _whatever_, I just want to punch him in his fat fucking face. I want to scream FUCK YOU, ARE YOU DEALING WITH ANXIETY AND ADHD AND BIPOLAR DISORDER AND WHILE HOLDING DOWN A FUCKING JOB? No, no, you're not.

I have my mother to thank for my disorders.

I love her, don't get me wrong, but seriously, fuck disorders. They all suck so much that I can't decide which of the three of them (the three that I know about, in any case. I could have ten million more things wrong in my head and it would not surprise me at all) I hate the most.

Christ, I'm glad no one is in the bathroom. I've had to jack off with people around before, and it is stressful as fuck. All that trying to be quiet but trying to sate yourself simultaneously makes my head feel like it's going to explode.

I choose the stall furthest away from the door- god help me if I ever use a urinal in my life. That is not just disgusting, but fucking scary, too. I mean, I like dick, but that doesn't mean I want to see every goddamned penis that comes strutting along. And come _on,_ how do you not look at those things when they're all out in the open?

I lock the teal stall door behind me with a little sigh, and then recheck the locking mechanism, because it's cheap and worn out and I'm afraid it'll come undone. There's graffiti all around me and it's distracting me from unbuttoning my pants, which is hard enough when my hands shake as much as they do. I grip my hard-on. Here is where I typically drift off and think of Craig or sometimes Kenny McCormick, because he's really pretty once you get him to take his hood down (and I feel kind of special that he'll do it for me, even though there are probably like a thousand chicks he'll take it down for).

But I'm mad at Kenny still. I'm tired of thinking about him, I realize, and he's not like Craig, anyway. Kenny's a decent guy in those rare moments in which I feel like I need a friend, but he doesn't made me feel glittery all over, like Craig.

Craig never smiles.

What an asshole.

So I fantasize about Craig smiling.

Sort of. He's smiling while he's under me, but it's the concept, isn't it? It feels good. It feels great, actually, even though it would feel better if I had coffee or a cigarette.

The thing about coffee is that it calms me down on the inside. It's yummy, and I feel nice when I drink it. But on the outside, I get all weird and hyper and I talk to fast for anybody to understand me. Fuck them, anyway. Nobody really likes having me around. They just kind of tolerate me because they think I'm the kid that's gonna blow a gasket and show up at school one day to shoot the brains out of every asshole that's ever treated me like shit.

Sometimes, I feel like that kid.

But I'm not.

At least, I don't think that I am.

I come into my hand. It's gross. But it would be grosser if I left it on the toilet seat for some poor unsuspecting fuck, so I just wipe myself off with two squares of toilet paper and flush the mess away.

I wash my hands three times. I always wash my hands, mainly because they're always nasty. I keep hand sanitizer with me, too. It's the good kind. My mom bought it for me from Bath & Body Works. It smells like marshmallows.

My doctor told me to quit washing my hands so much. It's fucking up my skin or something. I already gnaw on my cuticles all day, so I've decided not to listen. Doesn't the guy know how many fucking diseases I could catch? He's a goddamn physician and he's advising me _not_ to wash my hands.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one that's fucking sane around here.

My hands are cold now, from all the freezing water I ran over them. I rub them together and adjust the strap of my messenger bag on my shoulder.

As I reach for the handle of the bathroom door (I'll need to use my hand sanitizer after I do this) –

The door collides with my forehead.

There's a resonating _smack_ that echoes throughout the empty bathroom. I topple onto the disgusting tiled floor, directly onto my ass. This hurts. I have legitimately no padding back there; I'm a bony fucker.

I shriek.

"Jesus Christ!" I wail at the perpetrator, "What the fuck, man?"

"Don't be such a pussy."

Oh, Jesus.

It's Craig.

He has his headphones in.

In a spur of the moment decision that I only wish I could explain the reasoning of, I scramble to my feet and pry his iPod out of his stupid, perfect-looking hands. They're not dry and cracked and bandaged, like mine. And his nails are clipped.

He doesn't react, really, just stares at me as I look to see what music is so good that it's always in his fucking ears no matter what is going on.

It's so predictable that I'm kind of disappointed. It's just some German-sounding metal band.

How fucking like Craig Tucker.

Here I am, imagining what dark secrets his iPod may contain, and it's just exactly what I would have pegged him for. Despite being the crazy kid, I can figure people out sometimes. Maybe it's because I'm paranoid and everybody sucks so much that they always do exactly what I'm afraid they will.

"That's not all I listen to, dumbass," Craig says, and he wrenches his iPod back out of my grip.

I don't understand at first, but then I realize that I must have expressed my disappointment out loud.

I feel like I'm about to detonate from being so mortified, but Craig doesn't even seem to give a shit. He rolls his eyes at me and tucks his headphones back into his ears, before positioning himself at one of the urinals.

"Stop staring at my dick," Craig deadpans.

I swear under my breath and tear my eyes away. I dart the fuck out of there before I do something to embarrass myself further.

Goddamnit.

Why did I have to be born the crazy kid?

**o.o.o.o**

At least Craig and I don't have our next class together. I have Ceramics with Thomas and Scott Malkinson and Butters. Art seems to be the thing that South Park's resident awkward kids are all good at, and it's nice, because our teacher puts up with our bullshit.

Craig has weightlifting or something all masculine like that this period. I only know because I heard Sally talking about Craig's arms to Bebe while Bebe and I were at work.

The fact that I may have purposely spilled Sally's coffee once I'd heard Craig's name so that I could eavesdrop is completely irrelevant.

Completely.

Anyway, ceramics is the only kind of dirty task (other than jerking myself off midday in the school bathroom, I guess. At this thought, I hit the heel of my hand against my forehead and mutter "Oh Christ." Why am I so fucking awkward?) that I can tolerate. I like clay, because it's like Play-Doh, except appropriate for seventeen-year-old boys to play with.

Not that I don't play with Play-Doh anyway, because I do. Nobody hangs out with me; it's not like they know. Except Bebe. She caught me once in the backroom at Harbucks rolling some purple Play-Doh around in my hands. She didn't make fun of me, though. She even bought me a Play-Doh Cake Makin' Station for Christmas, which I thought was pretty nice of her. I felt obligated to buy her a present after that, too. It was stupid. I got her a notebook with shoes on it. Because I think she likes shoes. She always has neat looking ones, in any case, with terrifyingly high heels on them and usually bows, too. But she pretended to like it and she sometimes writes in it in class, so I don't feel completely bad.

God, my stupid fucking mind can't stay on track for even five fucking seconds, can it?

I think I was thinking about why I like ceramics.

I'm good at it. I make my mom stuff for her collection. She has like, ten fucking billion teapots and teacups, or something. And I like making her things… but I hate having all that breakable shit around our house. I'm afraid I'll smash the tea paraphernalia all to pieces, _especially_ the fucking glass cabinet in the corner of our living room. The fucking _glass_ cabinet is where she keeps her favorite antiques.

And with me as a son, she is just asking for a china-related tragedy.

This is why I won't ever go in our living room. That place is a goddamned danger zone and I absolutely refuse to take part.

And still, I contribute to her breakable-shit-hoarding-collection that lines our walls with shelves of imminent doom. I am such a loving fucking son, you don't even know.

I think my teacher, Ms. Ferruggia, is starting to get tired of me making teapots over and over. But my semester project is the best teapot that I've ever come up with. It's an elephant, and the trunk is the spout. It's kind of ugly and lopsided right now because I've been spacing out, but I'll fix it…goddamn fucking elephant trunk.

I've decided that I hate elephants.

**o.o.o.o**

School could not end fast enough. Craig's probably told everyone by now that freaky-ass Tweek ripped his headphones out of his ears and then accused him of being unoriginal.

What kind of person does that? Fucking Christ.

I tug my crumpled pack of American Spirits (Kenny makes fun of me for smoking "hipster" cigarettes, but I like them better than the cheap crap he buys, so fuck him) out of the pocket of my jeans. My jeans are too tight. It bothers me, but I hate wearing belts. I'm so gracelessly shaped, anyway. No matter how much I eat I'm about as big around as a pencil, but I'm the second tallest kid in our class, three inches below Kyle Broflovski, who's like six foot four or something massive like that.

It takes me a few tries to light my cigarette since I've made myself so anxious. This is only my second cigarette, but I feel like I've been chain smoking all day. My lungs are tight and I'm short on breath. I know I wasn't smoking all day, though, because I went to all my classes (even though I was late to ceramics due to the horrific bathroom-Craig-iPod incident).

"Hey!" I hear behind me. I jump, but I know it's just some kid that's talking to his friend or something.

"Hey, Tweek! Wait up, dude!"

This time I shriek and practically jump out of my skin, because _no one_ talks to me. I've even scared Butters out of communicating with me and that guy is so nice that he tries to be friends with everybody, even people that blatantly hate him.

I nervously creak my head around.

It's Clyde and Token, and trailing behind them with his hands in his pockets is Craig.

I about shit my pants, I kid you not.

"Ack! I'm sorry! Don't hurt me! I'm sorry I took Craig's iPod and I'm sorry I'm stupid and-"

"Relax, Tweek," Clyde hooks his arm around my shoulder and musses my hair, which he manages to do thoroughly despite the fact that I'm like a foot taller than he is. He grins and says, "We just wanted to talk, my man."

"Jesus- that's what they say in the movies, right before they kill you," I sputter, and internally, I groan at my own words. Can anything come out of my mouth today that isn't so fucking awkward? Good God.

I shove Clyde off of me. I know he mostly means well, but he's fucking annoying.

"Chill," Craig states. He lifts a brow at the cigarette in my mouth and asks, "Can I bum one of those?"

I find myself unable to manage a rejection. I take out my cigarettes and offer one to Craig.

He takes it, but remarks, "American Spirits? Hipster faggot."

"At least I'm not an asshole," I shoot back. I don't actually regret saying this. Craig _is_ an asshole. He just flips me off and snaps his fingers to indicate that he wants to use my lighter, too.

Token gives my accusation an emphatic, "Dude."

"What do you guys want with me?" I demand. I hate when people fuck with me because they think it's funny, but I guess maybe I deserve it this time since I ripped Craig's headphones out of his ears.

"We really just want to hang out," Token assures me. He doesn't touch me like Clyde does, and I appreciate the consideration. Token's a smart guy. Though it should be common sense not to touch the twitchy kid, it doesn't occur to a lot of people. Read: Clyde.

Clyde takes a mini bag of Fritos out of his backpack (It's a Toy Story backpack. I heard Craig make fun of it once but I think it's kind of nice) and pops it open. Mouth full (which is gross), he says, "Yeah, dude. Craig says you're cool. We don't usually take his recommendations since he is, as you so eloquently put, an asshole. But Tweek, my boy, you're very clearly _unboring_." As Clyde speaks, little bits of Frito and saliva sort of spray everywhere. I wipe my face onto my sleeve and begin a frantic search for my hand sanitizer.

"That is so disgusting, dude," Token says to Clyde.

I like Token, I decide.

I realize something, though, as I finish scrubbing my hands with marshmallow hand sanitizer. I look up sharply and swivel around to stare at Craig. I ask loudly, "_Ngh_- wait! Why would you say I'm cool? I'm not cool!" I knew it. They just wanted to beat the shit out of me.

Craig shrugs.

Token goes on, "We're going over to my place to watch some movies. You down?"

Am I 'down'?

"Yeah," Clyde puts in, "Craig just rented a bunch of weird-ass indie crap, but you can choose what we watch, if you want." He moves like he's going to put his arm around me again, and I afford this action with the scariest scowl I can manage. It seems to work. Clyde returns to his Fritos.

I just want to know why Craig Tucker suddenly thinks I'm cool. The only reasonable explanation is that he's up to something. I know I've been staring at him for, like, years, but I figured I wasn't hurting anybody by just looking.

Then I remember I have a viable excuse not to go.

"Maybe – _ngh – _some other time. I've got work tonight," I say, relieved that I am going to live to see another day. I never thought work would save me from being murdered by Craig Tucker. Now I have to remember to thank Harbucks every time I realize I'm still breathing.

Clyde 'BAWW's.

Token says, "Maybe next time, dude. We'll come in to Harbucks tonight and say hi, though, yeah?"

Craig nods at this suggestion.

Well, fuck. Since they couldn't kill me at Token's, they would just kill me at work. I sigh.


	2. Very Interesting Sounds

**Chapter Track: Myriad Harbour – The New Pornographers**

I'm a fucking wreck today. I've spilled four orders already and I haven't even been working two whole hours yet. The first spill had been the most excusable – I left my shoes untied and the laces on the right one got tangled up in the coffee equipment. I had a latte in each hand and both of them exploded upon their impact with the floor. My underneath my forest green apron, my t-shirt is soaked in Sumatra and I reek of over-roasted coffee beans.

I'm sorry – Jesus Christ, actually, no, I'm not sorry about this. Harbucks is okay to work at, but the coffee is swill. There. I fucking said it: Swill. Harbucks doesn't know how to treat their coffee beans, but nobody around here gives a flying fuck because their coffee palettes are about as refined as my social skills. This is to say – not the fuck at all. If the residents of South Park had any goddamned sense, they'd long for the days when Tweak Bros reigned in town. But the people of South Park (myself included, regrettably), do not have any sense.

Actually, me _especially_. The only sense I do have is coffee-related. Everything else that comes out of my mouth or that I create is jumbled and weird, like the teapots I make for my mom. Maybe I have good taste in cigarettes, too, I think. Bu t then I'm pretty sure that Kenny McCormick would disagree with me, cheap bastard that he is. Other than that, my mind is fucked from here to Timbuktu.

The second time I spilled somebody's drink today was when Craig Tucker walked in with Token and Clyde. It was a frappuccino. Thankfully, I just dropped it directly onto the floor and my shoes, and not onto myself. Frappuccinos are sticky. It's gross to try and clean them off of yourself, trust me, I know. At least with the frappuccino'd floor, I can just get the mop and be busy while Craig Tucker trolls around Harbucks with his groupies.

Okay, that's kind of mean. Token is cool.

But Clyde is definitely a groupie.

At least this is what I think, until Bebe taps me on the shoulder. I'm sloshing soapy water over the deceased frappuccino. I'm surprised – I shriek a little involuntarily and clap my hand over my mouth. I'm not supposed to yell at work. I try really, really hard to be quiet. It doesn't usually work.

"Jesus, Bebe, what the hell?" I demand.

She replied, "I'll finish mopping. Craig and those guys want _you_ to make their drinks."

"Ngh, uh, why?" I ask, unable to stop my eyes from darting over to where the trio lounged in front of the register.

Bebe shrugs and gives a careless little flip of her curly hair, saying, "Fuck if I know, Tweek, but you _do_ make good coffee."

I blush at this. She rolls her eyes and takes the mop out of my hand. I still think that I should be cleaning up the mess I made. It was my fault (Messes at work generally are). And besides, Bebe had her nails done yesterday – she showed them to me. They're pretty and metallic and have little white flowers painted onto each nail. I don't want her to chip them by fixing my fuck-up, but she doesn't seem to mind much.

Bebe notices that I'm staring at her manicure, and she elbows me gently toward the register, brow cocked. I stick my tongue out at her and prepare for Death by Craig Tucker.

"What can I – ngh – get for you guys?" I ask, in my rehearsed "Harbucks voice" (my mom calls it that when she comes to see me at work). I've had to work on talking more slowly when I take people's orders. When Harbucks first hired me, nobody could understand what I was saying. Most people _still_ don't understand what I'm saying, but it's hard to misinterpret "Can I take your order?"

Craig pulls Clyde away from the counter by the collar of his letterman jacket and states, "Just coffee." Like a challenge. Just coffee? At Harbucks? Is he fucking nuts?

"Just coffee? Ngh, Craig, are you fucking retarded? That'll taste like shit," I stammer. I love black coffee, fear not, but _not_ Harbucks black coffee – I want to add this out loud, but I'm not supposed to shit talk Harbucks while at work, inside a Harbucks.

Craig lifts a brow. He says monotonously, "Okay. Then make me something that won't taste like shit."

I gape a little. I can feel my eye twitch at this request. This is even worse than asking for black coffee. Now he's leaving his order in my hands and I don't even know what he likes. Jesus, I shouldn't have said anything. I should have just gotten him his black coffee.

"Um. Okay," I manage anyway. As Craig passes me a five dollar bill, I look to Token and Clyde for their orders.

Token says, "I'll just have a caramel latte," and when I swipe his card and hand it back to him, he says, "Thanks, Tweek," takes two dollars from his expensive-looking leather wallet, and tucks them into the tip jar. Token is fucking awesome.

I rarely ever manage to gets tips in the jar when I'm the one manning the register, unless my mom comes in. Bebe collects the majority, and I am 110% certain that this is because of her nice boobs. I'm gay, but I'm not blind. They're sizeable tits, and she's not timid about displaying them to their best (breast? Get it? Ha. Jesus, I am a loser) advantage. Boobs put money in the tip jar, not twitchy, gawky kids with coffee stains on them from the neck down.

I can tell when Bebe gets worried about saving money from college – she wants to go to Brown – because she wears shirts that are even more lowcut than usual. This is a smart cash-gathering tactic, I believe. More boob = more money. Bebe's way smarter than people give her credit for.

Clyde orders next, a vanilla bean frappuccino (Craig remarks upon this, "What are you, five? Those things are like overpriced milkshakes." This is true).

Clyde's drink is the third one that I spill. Bebe turns to me to ask a question and I jump so hard that the yet-unlidded vanilla bean frappuccino sails up out of my hands and lands on the freshly mopped section of floor.

I groan and smack my hand against my face.

"I'm sorry, Bebe," is all I can say, "Please don't hate me. I'm fucking terrible at this, and I'm so-"

"It's fine, dude," she reassures me, and I feel a little better because she sounds sincere.

I realize that the other reason that people don't tip me is because I always spill their drinks.

Even though Craig paid first, I make his coffee last. The three of them are sitting at a table in the corner of the store and Clyde is laughing about something that Token said. From the look on Craig face, I think Token must have said something at his expense. But as I'm looking, Craig glances over at me, at first at my face, and then to my hands, which are clutching his drink as I add some hazelnut syrup. I think he knows that I'm trying to make sure that his drink is perfect.

I hate that he's staring at me, though. I despise when people look at me too long, and too many people do that. I'm a fucking magnet for unwanted attention because of my shakiness and my height and my general I'm-fucked-up demeanor, I know, but that doesn't mean I don't like the feeling of people's eyes on me any damn less. I wonder if it's this unnerving when _I _stare at _him_. I don't think he cares as much as I do, but then, he doesn't seem to care about much. He's so casual about everything. It both intrigues and messes with me.

I realize as I carry Craig's coffee to him that my hands are shaking. I mean, they always shake, but they're quivering more than usual. Once I notice, I try to force them under control. I mutter, "Stop that, hands," and glower at them. This has the opposite of the hoped-for effect. I just start shaking more.

For fear that I'll spill Craig's perfect Harbucks drink (as perfect as a Harbucks drink can be, but I'm pretty sure it'll be delicious because I'm a fucking coffee wizard), I walk a little faster, so I can get to his table quicker.

My shoelaces have come undone again, but naturally, I haven't noticed. Bebe always tells me that I need to double knot them, but I forget. When I step on my own laces, I stumble, pitching forward.

The fourth order that I spill that day belongs to Craig Tucker.

And, I spill it. Right. On. Craig fucking Tucker.

Most of the drink lands in Craig's lap. Some of it is on his coat and shirt and there are speckles of whipped cream on his neck and face.

_I want to lick that off_.

"Not right now, Tweek!" I exclaim to myself. If everybody in the shop hadn't already been staring at me, that outburst definitely would have done the trick. I have a knack for getting everybody to stare at me with a look of pity in their eyes.

This combination of events leaves me so mortified that I wish I could throw a tantrum. I wish I was fucking two years old and I could throw a giant bitch fit about my own gracelessness. Or even eleven years old, which is probably the last time anybody tolerated me having a full-on bitch fit. Tragically, I can only stare down at the Harbucks and nervously tug at my hair as it drips down off of Craig and onto the floor.

I hear Bebe stifle a little gasp behind me. Besides Kenny McCormick, Bebe's the only other person that knows I have a… _thing_ (I find myself thinking the word "boner" first, because it's what Kenny always says. I know it's true. I know I have a fucking boner for Craig fucking Tucker, but for some reason I don't like thinking those words in my head) for Craig Tucker. She lets me talk about it when we're alone and I just want to ramble about how I want to know more about him, how he doesn't share enough, how there is something behind the hat and the middle finger. I hope she'll let me scream about this when we close tonight.

I look skywards and question, "What the fuck? Jesus Christ, can I do anything right?"

"Dude. It's just coffee."

I look back at Craig, who is sitting in the exact same position that he's been sitting in all along. Like nothing has occurred. Like he's at a dinner party and somebody says something that's supposed to be funny, but totally isn't.

"Chill," he comments. He peels off his coffee-sodden coat and rests it on the back of his chair, before slogging off to get a wad of napkins for damage control. In the meantime, I'm sort of frozen to the spot, with Token and Clyde blinking at me like I'm a circus sideshow.

I'd actually make a pretty excellent sideshow ("Step right up! Come one, come all! It's the kid that yells at nothing! Make him twitch! Make him squirm!").

When Bebe pushes the mop into my grip, my hearts starts beating erratically all over again. I mutter, "Jesus, Bebe," but proceed to clean up the mess I've made. She gives me a consoling look. I appreciate it, since everybody in Harbucks is watching the freakshow unfold.

**o.o.o.o**

They don't leave until closing time, and when they finally do, Bebe and I exchange a glance that clearly reads "It's going to be one of those nights."

"Did you forget to take your meds today?" Bebe asks, and I know she means it in the nicest way possible, not that's she's making fun of me. We've been working together for a little over a year now, and over the period of time she has developed a Kenny-McCormick-like sixth sense when it comes to knowing whether or not I've taken my medication.

I don't look at her as I speak, just wipe down the retro-style tabletop in front of me, "No. They make me feel funny. When I'm on them I feel like a zombie and I don't like it." She has heard this many times before, but we always find ourselves having this conversation. My dilemma is that I can't decide whether or not I hate medicated me or unmedicated me more. Either I'm a total spaz who's off his rocker and spills shit everywhere or a glazed-over zombie-robot kid.

Bebe sighs. I think she wants to argue with me, but might be refraining because she knows how shitty my day has been. So, instead of quarrelling, she inquires, "Do you have your pipe with you?"

It's like she's read my mind. For once, I'm okay with my brain being invaded.

I abandon the rag in my hand and scramble to the backroom to where my stuff is, locate all my pot-smoking gear, and return with a bowl packed full of green. Bebe's queuing up her smoking music. She listens to weird shit sometimes. I mean, so do I. Throughout our year of working together our weird shit has begun to intermingle.

The first time Bebe and I ever smoked together, we were here. It had happened on a day exactly like this one, in which I spilled shit everywhere and generally made life awkward for myself and everybody unfortunate enough to be near me. Smoking wasn't a planned thing. Neither of us had actually suggested anything. It had been Kenny McCormick. We'd been closing down, and we saw him pass by, wandering around in the snow with his sister.

We aren't really allowed to let people in after closing, but Kenny and Karen looked cold. We opened the door and usher them in. Kenny's eye was swollen shut, but when Bebe started fussing over it (I'm pretty sure they sleep together. I'd be more surprised if I found out that they didn't), he said it wasn't a big deal, wasn't too bad, he'd had worse. He's only halfway through the door and he's already shedding his parka and rolling a joint.

We ate a lot of the day-old pastries that we were supposed to donate, that night. Bebe's case was probably one of the more hilarious cases of munchies I'd ever seen. I think that night may have been her first time smoking.

But to this day Bebe and I set aside some of the pastries from time to time to give to Kenny. I'd seen him sans hood plenty of times before that night, but never without the parka. He's skinnier than I am, and I am fucking skinny. In an eventual game of strip-poker, I made the discovery that you can count his ribs.

As I bring over my purple-and-green glass pipe, my hands are still shaking. I wonder if maybe I should listen to Bebe and take my medication tomorrow.

Bebe doesn't play her usual music tonight. Typically her bejeweled iPod will be blasting something with a quick dance beat and disturbing lyrics, but tonight, she's playing Nat King Cole. I guess she must be upset about something, but she and I don't talk about feelings with each other. My feelings are always too obvious, and she just doesn't like discussing hers.

She's humming along to L-O-V-E as she sweeps the hardwood floor. When she sees me with pipe in hand, Bebe extracts her lighter and tosses it back to me. I don't catch it, really. Instead, it hits me in the face and falls into my hand when I shriek. Occasionally, I do experience moments of serendipity. They just don't occur when they would be the most useful.

I light up.

I feel better almost instantly, and pass the pipe to Bebe. She inhales.

I don't know when we start or how late at night it is, but Bebe grabs my hands and puts one on my waist. We start twirling around Harbucks like this, because it's fucking fun to pretend to ballroom dance to the oldies when you're high off of your ass. We giggle and spin. She curtsies. We both laugh.

And then Nat King Cole is suddenly Lady Gaga, and in place of ballroom dancing, we're whipping around Harbucks with our mop and broom, shaking our asses like badly-trained backup dancers. We reconnect when the song flips to "Americano," and start to step out something like a really ugly, really stupid looking tango. Bebe pauses at the milk and sugar station and sticks one of the plastic green straws in her mouth like a rose.

We burst out laughing.

At _"living on the edge of the law, law, law,"_ I jump up on a table, because, why the fuck not? Today has been such shit that I just feeling like doing whatever the fuck I want. When I'm baked, I think I'm damn sexy. At least, that's how Bebe and Kenny describe it (Kenny accuses me of being burlesque dancer in my spare time. This is funny when I'm high, and humiliating when I'm not. I just hope he keeps that between us).

As I'm dancing, I see a dull light across the street. It's the glowing square screen of a slightly-outdated iPod Classic.

It's Craig.

He's looking directly at us, I think. I briefly wonder why he's walking around outside, alone, and in the snow.

Fortunately, I take this moment to trip on my untied shoelaces (fucking again), and topple from the table, onto the shiny, just-mopped floor, and onto my ass. Bebe, who is using the mop as a microphone, pauses and cackles at my misfortune. I laugh too, more loudly than I have in a really, really long time. Because, let's face it: I was just dancing on a table, tripping balls, and fell off and onto my butt, in front of the guy I want to screw desperately. It's fucking funny. I give no shits about how stupid I look.

It's an okay ending to a supremely shitty day.

I have a lot of those.

**o.o.o.o**

There's a sticky note on my locker.

I can see it from here.

I'm standing in the middle of the hallway, a few solid yards between me and the offending note. I should just walk over. It probably just says 'fag' or something. I get those kind of notes taped to my locker with fair regularity. In part, I blame Kenny, who stole Lisa Frank penguin stickers from his sister and stuck them all over my locker. But I think the only person that sticks mean shit to my locker is Eric Cartman.

Those are always on notebook paper, though.

This is a sticky note. There's a big fucking difference, because the people of South Park are creatures of habit. Cartman wouldn't change his derogatory-note-making materials for the world.

Somebody shoves me and mutters, "Out of the way, faggot." I don't bother turning to see who it is. It's probably Cartman, even though there was a big to-do last years when he wouldn't leave one of the other gay kids alone. I swear Eric Cartman is so far in the closet that he lives among 1980's jazzercise tapes and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I decide to just steel myself against whatever prank is being pulled on me this time. If I show up late again to Chem because something's scared me, my teacher will throw a fit.

But it doesn't say 'fag.'

It doesn't say 'psycho.'

It doesn't say, 'creep' or 'weirdo' or even 'kick me.'

It's just a plain yellow sticky note with painfully neat, all lowercase letters written tightly onto it. They're written so flawlessly that it looks like it's been written on lined paper.

It's Craig's handwriting.

I know, because I spend a lot of time staring at it. And, Jesus, there was that one time—on the last day of junior year, he tipped his backpack over and dumped its entire contents into the trashcan sitting between our lockers.

I _may_ have taken some of the papers that he'd cast off.

No, I definitely did.

I mostly got his math notes, but it was worth it, because when Craig isn't sleeping in class, he's doodling all over his papers and his desk. One of the pages I took out of the trash can has guinea pigs bordering the top (One of the guinea pigs is wearing a top hat and monocle, but I think that might have been Clyde, because it's in a different colored pen).

The sticky note just says:

_Myriad Harbour – The New Pornographers_

A song.

It's a song.

What the flying fuck?

I glance around the hallway, but nobody's watching me. Nobody's even glancing over. There is nothing happening that is out of the ordinary. Rebecca is hurriedly collecting the lipstick that's rolling down the linoleum floor. Mr. Mackey's dangling a package of Marlboros in front of Kenny and presumably lecturing him on "the dangers of smoking, mmkay?" Cartman is sniggering at this.

There is no sign of Craig whatsoever.

I turn back to my locker.

Gingerly, I peel the sticky note off, fold it in half, and tuck it into my pocket.

**o.o.o.o**

It's about three in the morning. I'm in my beg nursing a tall mug of quality black coffee. I'm sort of tangled up in my blankets because I can't decide if I'm hot or cold (One of the many reasons why I am not safely abed). My window is open even though it's snowing. Mom hates when I do this. It makes me anxious, she says. She thinks I might get frostbite.

My laptop rests on my stomach. This started as an attempt to write my essay on Huckleberry Finn, which I am not actually reading. I've ended up playing solitaire instead.

Craig and his friends asked me to hang out again today. I told them that I have homework, which is true. I'm just not doing it. I don't understand their motives. I don't know what their ploy is. I don't know why they'd want to hang out with the weird kid. And I_ really_ don't know why Craig told Clyde and Token that I'm cool, because everybody knows that that is definitely not true.

There isn't a logical explanation, but then, I'm not good with logic.

But when I try, I can't come up with anything illogical to explain this, either.

And why the fuck is he sticking shit to my locker now? What is he-

Wait, the sticky note. I'd forgotten.

I tug myself out of my blankets. This is managed without a single ounce of agility, and after several second of arduous struggle with the bed linens, my sheets have won. I am on the floor. At least, my face is. It's planted into the carpet while my legs are still knotted together by my Star Wars sheets.

"Ngh…fuck," I mutter to myself.

With a little less flailing, I untangle myself and locate the jeans I wore today in my dirty clothes hamper. This is disgusting, and it pains me to have to paw through germy clothing, but I can't let Craig's sticky note go through the wash. It was meant for me.

I can't just remember what it says, either. I wish I could memorize things like a stupid song, but I can't. I just do not have the ability. My mom calls me "scatterbrained," but I'm not _completely_ delusional. I know I'm totally mindfucked. What, between the medicine and the disorders, sometimes it's hard to find Tweek in there. Sometimes I'm stuck.

I use my marshmallow hand sanitizer twice after sifting through my dirty clothes, before I unfold the note and stick it to the top of the computer screen.

_Myriad Harbour_ is definitely not what I was expecting. It's kind of…folksy. And I would never call Craig "folksy."

I listen to _Myriad Harbour _three times all the way through without moving. It's not music that I'm used to. I listen to things with tense beats and gory lyrics. This song sounds all loose and happy. It's exactly what I wouldn't have thought Craig Tucker would listen to.

And exactly what I _want_ him to listen to.

I knew there was more to Craig than a chullo hat collection and flipping people off. I fucking knew it, and I'm pleased as goddamn punch that I did.

I download the entire album that _Myriad Harbour_ is on and upload it to my iPod. It's not exactly my taste…Okay, it's nothing the hell at all like my taste, but it'll make me think of Craig when I listen to it. Despite making me feel nervous and glittery inside, thoughts of Craig are kind of my rock. Like, "Don't worry, Tweek, I'll always be here to flip you off and fall asleep in class." I'm fascinated by the fact that he can fall asleep anywhere. I hardly sleep at all. When I do, it's typically two or so hours that my body forces me into out of desperation. My body does a lot of things without my consent.

Craig seems to always been control.

Like he can do whatever he wants.

Jesus Christ, I wish I could be in control of something for fucking once. Maybe that's why I like clay and Play-Doh so much. I get to be in charge of what shape it'll make.

Even then, clay and Play-Doh don't always make the shape I want them to. Sometimes me creations turn out lopsided and ugly when they're done, and I end up more anxious than I would have been if I hadn't made a Play-Doh creation at all. What's nice, at least, is that even if I make something hideous, my mom will still put it on display and pretend that she likes it.

We fight a lot, but she's a good mom. Being bipolar herself, she understands my fucked-up brain in a weird way.

I think Craig might get it too. But I'm not sure yet.

**o.o.o.o**

I scamper off before anybody can see me.

I stuck a note onto Craig Tucker's locker.

Mine says:

_In Old Yellowcake – Rasputina_

**o.o.o.o**

**G'day everybody. Thanks and internet hugs for my awesome reviewers: MariePierre, TheAwesome15, Wendlekins, Amberr-chan, KirstenTheDestroyer (bro just make a FF account already), Alex0821, hootpoop12, and TheSlashEmpress. You guys rock my world.**

**Just a general announcement, this story will be a little more slowly paced than my K2 fic. Fear not, I **_**will**_** have smut, it just won't be right away. You may also have noticed if you're a carry-over fan from The Game of Life that I am not updating with as much speed. Mainly, this is because I work a fulltime job and I am also a lazy asshole. **

**BUT I WILL WORK DILIGENTLY TO UPDATE AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE.**

**Comments/questions/suggestions? Hit me up.**


	3. Video Kid Like You

**Chapter Track: Video Kid – The Birthday Massacre**

_Comfort Eagle – Cake_

This is the sixth song sticky note that Craig has put on my locker. I'm sure he knows that I'm already familiar with Cake. Aren't most nineties kids? My dad owned all their early albums, along with some other remarkable 1990's fun - You know – Alanis Morisette, early Green Day, Indigo Girls, R.E.M...

I actually still listen to R.E.M. for no other reason than that it reminds me of being a toddler. I think a lot of kids have music like what R.E.M. is to me – something I probably wouldn't listen to if it didn't remind me of this surreal time when I was completely carefree and my obsession with Play-Doh wasn't frowned upon.

I fold this sticky note up and pocket it as usual, but this time, I write my own response right away. It's not a song.

_Maybe we should communicate non-sticky note._

_Or non-Harbucks order._

I add the last part as an afterthought, because Craig comes into Harbucks almost every day to get coffee, in spite of the lap incident last week. I don't know why he does it. Sure, yeah, he's actually gotten to taste my masterful coffee creations at this point, instead of wiping them off of his Red Racer t-shirt with biodegradable napkins – but it's still Harbucks coffee. Still the cheap commercial stuff. I can tell he knows that, too, but he still comes to Harbucks to waste his money on overpriced coffee in the evenings.

I wander on to trigonometry, which I'm terrible at, because I'm just bad at math. Bad at logic problems, actually. Craig is really fucking good at math. He's in advanced calculus or something ridiculously difficult sounding like that.

I don't talk to anybody in my math class. The other students are mostly a grade younger than me, so I don't know any of the beyond the basic knowledge that comes with being familiar with everybody in a small town. I only really know that Kip Drordy kid. We don't actually talk, but we have a sort of unspoken weird-kid bond.

After math, there's another note on my locker.

_I've invited you to hang out like four times, dickhead._

Okay, but I didn't know that he was serious. He was? I mean, I know we used to hang out as kids, but at that point, I was only a little jumpy, only about as afraid of things as normal kids are – the dark, monsters under the bed (underpants gnomes count, right?). The usual.

Now I just have a shitload of things _really_ wrong with me. The only kind of people that can stand to hang around me for than a couple minutes are people that also have too much wrong with them to fit in quite right. The ugly kids, Kip Drordy, sometimes Thomas, but mostly drug-addicted Kenny McCormick. I guess Bebe doesn't mind being around me, but only because we work together.

I wonder briefly If I'd be able to find people that would like me if I left South Park, but promptly realize that I wouldn't know where to go if I left South Park, and that I'd be all alone. At least here I can pretend I'm not alone. At least here I have my parents and working with Bebe and smoking with Kenny.

I sigh, and like always, I fold Craig's sticky not in half and put it in my pocket. I'm going to be late if I keep dawdling, so I scrawl hurriedly on a post-it of my own:

_Okay. Let's hang out._

I feel like normal people would have had this conversation out loud.

I'm not normal.

I always thought that Craig was, though.

I find myself envious of his ability to keep and break routine however he chooses. I think he mostly keeps to a routine.

I think I'm fucking with his routine.

For some reason, this delights me.

**o.o.o.o**

At lunch, I go outside and across the street to smoke with Kenny. It's fucking freezing outside, and not the fun kind of cold in which picturesque snowflakes make the town look like it should belong in a snow globe. No, it's the November kind of cold – it snowed three days ago, so any snow left is either the nasty, so-dirty-it's-black kind, or hardened on the ground into crunchy patches of white ice. The sky is gray all the way around, but I can still see where the sun is. It's a grayish-white disc. I wish it would come out from behind the cloud cover and melt all of the crappy snow.

I say this to Kenny, and he responds, "I like winter." He sort of flaps his arms, and I think he's talking about how he likes to wear his parka all year round, which must be miserable in Coloradan summer heat. I think he wears it so much because he's so skinny and scarred up. I don't think he lives a very good life at home. I once overheard Bebe offering the guest room at her house to him and Karen. He just got mad.

I toss my sack lunch over to him and say, "I'm not hungry. You want this?" It's true. I'm not hungry whatso-fucking-ever. This morning marked one of the mom's manic days. I heard her wake up around three in the morning (to be fair, I wasn't sleeping either, but I never sleep). When I came downstairs three hours later, she'd made two different kinds of pancakes (banana nut and blueberry), crepes, scrambled eggs, and was frying bacon. She was drinking coffee, but I'm pretty sure that she'd spiked it. I saw the Bailey's out next to the coffee maker.

When she gets like that, I try to eat as much as I can, because it makes her happy. I ate so much food this morning that I walk too slowly to make it to the bus, and had to go by foot, until Stan Marsh passed by took pity on me. He gave me a ride the rest of the way. I was stuck in the bitch seat, of course, between Kenny and Cartman – the latter of whom kept trying to yank my coffee out of my hand just to see what kind of reaction he could get out of me.

So I poured scalding coffee down Eric Cartman's jacket.

I grin, because this makes me giddy (even though I wasted half of my good coffee on Cartman's misery).

Kenny nudges my lunch back toward me and says irritably, "Don't need your charity, dude," Even though he says this, his stomach growls. He glares down at the frozen ground and after crushing his Marlboro under his right combat boot, he lights another. I think that when Kenny's hungry, he just smokes more.

"Ngh – dude, I'm seriously not hungry. If you don't eat it, I'm just gonna throw it away," I say. Also true. I often find myself unable to lie to Kenny McCormick. If I do lie, I think he just knows I'm lying, anyway.

Kenny studies me for a moment, and then grabs back the paper sack.

He pushes down his hood and bandana. There's a huge bruise across his cheek.

"Jesus Christ-" I reach out slightly, but he swats my hand away.

"Don't, Tweek," he warns, avoiding eye contact. Before opening the back, he puts out his barely-smoked second cigarette and replaces it in the package. He doesn't ever waste cigarettes. I saw him picking up one my half-smoked ones, once.

He unrolls the top of the paper bag and takes out more manic-mother-produced food, all packed into a little green bento box and thermos. He looks over at me and cocks a brow, "_This_ is what your lunch is like every day? Lucky son of a bitch. What the fuck are these, anyway?" he asks, holding up a plastic baggy.

"Um, banana chips," I answer.

"Banana chips," he repeats, and he shakes his head. Kenny laughs, but the laugh is mirthless. He eats the banana chips anyway, and mid-chew, he queries, "So, how's lusting after Tucker going?"

"I'm not lusting after Craig!" I insist.

By now, Kenny has polished off the banana chips and has moved onto the juice box. His eyes slide over to me with his mouth still on the straw sticking out of the top. He grins, straw between teeth, and comments, "You'll never get laid with that attitude, mister. I didn't realize you were so far in denial."

I make a face at him and reply, "I'm not in denial. I just don't want to have a thing for a straight guy." I feel my face heat up, and I stare down at my hands. They're the same as always – dry and cracked and covered in Band-Aids. Really ugly, fucked up hands.

Kenny washes down my egg salad on sour dough with the final swallow of Minute Maid and rolls his eyes at me. He responds, "If I find out that Tucker is straight, I will give you a hundred bucks."

"You don't have a hundred bucks," I point out.

"Exactly," Kenny states. He unscrews the top of my thermos and exclaims, "Nice! Is this soup, like, homemade, dude? Lucky motherfucker." Kenny tosses aside the lid (which you're supposed to use as a cup. I want to point this out, but refrain, because he would just make fun of me), and chugs down my mom's tomato basil soup.

"But he doesn't go out with boys," I say.

Kenny snorts and retorts, "Have you ever seen him with a girl, either?"

**o.o.o.o**

When I return, my emptied bento box and thermos stowed away back in my messenger bag, there are two new notes attached to my locker. The first says "_Sit with us at lunch_" which he stuck on there too late. I feel guilty about missing it, until I see the next one – "_Meet at the crosswalk at three._"

I guess I'm hanging out with Craig Tucker.

**o.o.o.o**

I get to the crosswalk two minutes late. Craig is leaning against the stop sign, one hand in the pocket of his baggy jeans, the other holding a smoldering cigarette. Clyde and Token are with him. Clyde waves as I walk up, and Token offers me a stick of peppermint gum, which I refuse.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"My place," Token says, "We're gonna watch some movies."

"Again?" Clyde, who apparently was not in on the plan, groans, "Craig, if it's any more of your depressing indie bull-"

"No. Horror," Craig says, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

"H-Horror?" I repeat. I've never been good with horror movies. It's like, I _know_ they're not real but they fucking feel real when I watch them. People always get decapitated and shit, and then my neck feels tingly like I'm gonna get beheaded too. Then I can't stop looking behind me, because I'm convinced that there's some guy with a mutilated face toting a chainsaw that's ready to fucking kill me.

Craig raises both brows at me. He says, "Are you seriously scared of horror movies." It's a question, but the way that he speaks makes it sound like a statement.

I glower at him and say, "No!"

He flips me off.

Token see this as his cue to break it up, I suppose, because he clears his throat and steps in between me and Craig as we walk. He says, "My parents have like, really expensive coffee, dude. I don't drink it much but it's imported. I thought you might like some."

I find it difficult to believe that anybody this far into the middle of nowhere would have good coffee, but then, Token _is_ loaded. So, I say, "Imported?"

"Yeah. From like Brazil or somewhere down there," Token shrugs.

How can he just shrug at imported South American coffee beans? I think I'm gaping because Clyde claps me on the back and announced, "Guess if you wanted Tweek here to hang out two weeks ago, you should have just bribed him with Token's fancy-dancy rich people coffee, huh, Craig? Oh, and can we stop at Taco Bell on the way over? I'm getting serious cravings up in here."

"Pregnant, Clyde?" says Craig.

I use my shoulders to push Clyde's arm off of me and muttered, "Don't touch me, dude."

"Ooh-wooo! Okay!" Clyde lifts his hands up in defense, "Gee, sorry for _touching_ you, Tweek."

"Clyde, shut the fuck up," Craig says. He flicks the end of his cigarette onto a pile of stale snow and glances over to me. He holds my gaze for a moment. I think he's doing it to throw me off or something, even though he just defended me. So, I stare right back. His eyes are really dark – so much so that they're nearly black. Maybe that's what makes me so tense when he's looking at me; the fact that I can't see his pupils, or maybe that his face is so blank that I can't tell what he's thinking. I know he must be thinking about _something_. Right?

Craig looks away first.

I consider this a victory.

I refuse to go into the Taco Bell with the rest of them – "Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how disgusting those places are?" – I hate fast food restaurants. It's a combination of things that created this hate. Somehow, the way that they tile their floor or something makes them look perpetually dirty, and they smell like fake meat and mass-produced floor cleaner. Plus the people inside fast food joints never look happy. They always look like they're about to murder somebody. Mainly, murder me.

They thankfully don't take too long, though when they emerge from the Taco Bell, I wonder what kind of order fills a bag as large as the one in Clyde's hands. At least his attention is occupied. I don't think he'll be touching me anymore, and that's nice.

The way to Token's house is a bit of a trek, especially with all the icy snow leftovers littering the sidewalks. I almost fall a couple of times, but manage to catch myself, and Clyde actually does fall (because he cared more about rescuing his Taco Bell than regaining his balance). It takes a half hour before we reach it, but when we do, the walk feels worth it.

I think the last time that I went to Token's house, I must have been eleven. That would have been right before puberty hit me like a two-foot-thick brick wall, causing all my problems to manifest at once, and thusly turning me into South Park's resident psycho kid. I kind of miss being little and naïve, but then I remember that I like sex too much to want to go back to the playground days.

The house is huge – not that that's news – but I think that the Blacks have added some renovations since I last laid eyes on the place. There's a new porch lacing all the way around the front, made out of honey-colored wood and decorated by well-loved topiary and plants potted in painted ceramic vases. Token sees me staring and comments that gardening is a hobby of his father's.

Token opens the front door with a key that dangles off of his lanyard. There's a car key, too, and I wonder why he doesn't just drive to school.

The inside of Token's house looks a lot like a remember it, with a marble foyer embellished with surreal art. A large staircase leads to the second floor in a half-spiral. Instead of heading, up, though, Token leads us down the steps leading to the basement. He makes us take our shoes off first, and we leave them on the shiny hardwood floor do we don't stain the cream-colored plush carpeting with the gross slush we all stomped through.

I glance back at the kitchen before descending and ask, "What about the coffee?"

"There's a coffee bar downstairs," explains Token.

Holy fuck, how rich are these people?

My answer becomes "rich as shit" when I see the promised coffee bar – well, the espresso machine, really. I can't help myself. I exclaim, "Jesus Christ, dude! This is a La Marzocco! Holy shit! These go for like, 6.5k, oh my God." I want to touch it, but I don't think that would be polite. Instead, I stand before the machine in nothing less than awe, wringing my bandaged hands together.

Token says, "You can use it, dude. I'm not really sure how, to be honest."

I'm trying desperately to keep my cool, but I'm standing in front of the classiest fucking espresso machine in South Park, probably the classiest espresso machine in all of Park Country. I clench my fists at my sides and ask, stuttering over my words, "Where do you keep your b-beans?"

"Cabinet," replies Token, pointing, "Craig, go put the movie in."

"What are we watching, anyway?" asks Clyde, "Just because Craig said 'horror' doesn't get us out of the woods. It's probably still some indie weird shit." His mouth is full of cheap burrito. Clyde has set up camp on a suede-upholstered lounge chair. I hope he doesn't smear Taco Bell all over it. It looks expensive. From Token's pursed lips, I'd guess that he's worrying about the same thing.

"Let the Right One In," answers Craig, from the other room. I peer around the doorway. It's a home theatre – an enormous one, with three rows of leather recliners on wide, slightly elevated stairs, one over the other. There's even a projector and a big white screen.

"Woah," I say, before I can help myself.

Craig glances over his shoulder at me for only a second before returning to his position on the carpet, where he's fiddling with the DVD player.

Clyde groans behind me, "Dude, isn't that like, foreign, or something?"

"Yes, Clyde," responds Craig, "You'll have to submit yourself to subtitles. I know it's hard, but I'm sure we can get through this together." Sarcasm drips off of every word.

Somehow, the notion of having to read subtitles makes the idea of watching a horror movie seem less daunting to me, like reading the words on the screen will ground me and I won't feel like the movie is so real. I feel a trace of a smile on my mouth and duck back to the coffee bar – out of which I suspect one of the best cups of coffee of my life is about to be produced.

**o.o.o.o**

It is, just so you know.

The coffee is fucking glorious, and for the first few minutes of the film, I'm distracted enough that I'm not scared.

But then the coffee's gone.

I'm actually thankful for Clyde's running commentary at this point, even his complaints about being made to watch another "pussy-ass foreign film." His chatter keeps me out of the film enough to not be terrified of the creepy Swedish children. There's something about me that doesn't mix well with creepy-ass Swedish children.

"Dude, Clyde, I'm trying to watch it," Token pipes up. He throws an empty soda can across me and Craig, who are in the middle. It bounces off of Clyde's head.

He whispers, "Hey!"

Craig flips Clyde off, even though he wasn't the one that threw the offending Mountain Dew can.

Then everybody's quiet.

I don't like it. Now I have to pay attention.

I rise to make my escape to the La Marzocco espresso machine for more coffee.

Craig's hand clamps down on my knee and forces me back down into a sitting position. He says lowly, "You'll miss the good part."

"It's scary," I say back, and hopefully I'm quiet enough in doing this that Token and Clyde can't hear me say it. I'm fucking embarrassed that I can't handle horror movies, even ones that are in a language I don't understand.

Craig blinks to the movie and then back at me. After a few seconds of consideration, he says, "You'll be fine."

I don't think so. I look at him like he's grown a second head, but he isn't looking at me anymore. He's watching the movie with undivided attention. I don't think that he's even blinking.

I start gnawing at my cuticles.

I shiver.

Craig takes my wrist and moves my hand out of my mouth. I think that the touching should bother me, but it doesn't. I debate for a moment, but then, after making certain that Clyde and Token aren't looking, I extend my hand, offering it to him.

Craig stares at my hand like somebody stares at a bug. I flush and start to move away. I have ugly hands. They're way too big and knobby and dry and covered in Toy Story Band-Aids. My right hand is covered in my spit from chewing on it just a moment ago. Maybe I should apologize to him for grossing him out.

"Tweek," he remarks.

Jesus Christ, I like the way that he says my name.

"You need to stop fucking with your hands," Craig finishes.

And he tucks his hand into mine.

**o.o.o.o**

**Much thanking and creepy hugs for my superb reviewers: MariePierre, ObanesHarvest (I fucking love you too! :D), KirstenTheDestroyer, Alex0821, Wendlekins, TheSlashEmpress, TheAwesome15, Scarlet Wolf, R.R. Miaera, Amberr-chan, and Surnoom. *Takes deep breath* Holy shit, there are a lot of you.**

**General things to address, my taste in music umbrellas pretty much everything so don't be surprised if you don't like some of the songs in here, if you're the kind of person that likes to listen to fic music (I do, haha). Plus I try to give each of Matt & Trey's characters a little bit of flavor with their own different taste in music, so uh. Yeah. **

**Ramble ramble ramble, I love you all. **


	4. We Danced in Diamond Dust

**Chapter Track: Blue – Emily Jane White**

I get back home a few minutes after nine o'clock. The end of the movie was somewhat anticlimactic (probably because by that point, I squeezed my eyes shut, and then, when it ended, Craig just slipped his hand out of mine to turn off the DVD player).

Afterwards, I'd made everybody a round of Token's rich people coffee, and while sipping coffee and munching on potato chips, Token and I watched Clyde and Craig play a few intense rounds of foosball. Clyde won most of them – he's apparently skilled in tabletop games, but I guess Craig's pride forced him to play until he won at least once. Only then did we call it a night.

Token gave me a ride home – well, he gave everybody a ride home (But I was first). In his _BMW._

"It's not new," defends Token, "My dad just wanted a new 5-series, so he passed down his old 2004 3-series to me." Like this changes the fact that Token Black owns a fucking BMW. However, I decide not to say this, because Token seems a little self-conscious about his family's fortunate financial situation.

I wave goodbye to them. I wonder what to call them. They're sort of my friends, I guess. We _were_ friends once. I think it might be happening again.

Token says, "It was cool hanging out, dude."

Clyde adds, "Yeah, see you next time!" I can't figure out how he manages to remain chipper all day.

Craig just waves.

This makes me feel glittery.

And I wave back, a second time. It might not have been necessary. It was kind of an awkward wave and I feel a little awkward.

Token waits at the curb in front of my house until I've opened my door, and only then does he drive away. I think this is pretty nice of him.

My house smells like dinner. Not the good kind of dinner, really, but like somebody's tried to cook a thousand things at once and solid few of them have been burned. It doesn't take me long to realize that my mom's still manic – and I forgot. I fucking forgot. I can't believe I forgot about my mom, because I was too busy thinking about Craig. Oh, Jesus.

Jesus Jesus Jesus fucking Christ.

"Tweek, sweetie, is that you?" I hear her say from the kitchen. Her voice rings out a little higher than usual, and I'm not surprised. I fucked up today and I _cannot fuck up_ when my mom is like this. I can't, because when it's flipped, when I'm manic, she doesn't fuck up. Because she knows it would make me tear out my hair and rip up my hands and make me freak out.

I ditch my messenger bag on our yellow sofa and head over. Jesus only knows what I'm about to see.

It isn't good.

This is one of the worse episodes of my mom's that I've seen, and it's because I messed up. Pots and muffin tins and cake pans are stacked up in the sink and what seems like four feet out of it, covered in suds. My mom sets down a sponge cake in front of my dad as I approach. I don't know what she burned, but it wasn't the cake. The cake is perfect, decorated with looping powdered sugar icing and strawberries dipped in chocolate. Dad's favorite dessert.

She turns when she hears my footsteps. She smiles broadly. My mom is pretty – like, really pretty. But right now, it's a kind of insane-looking pretty, because I know she must have spent an hour making sure that not a single pigment of eye makeup was awry. She's just _off_, and it's my fault, I know it is. I know better than to break routine on these days. I know way better than that, but I let myself forget because I was too damned preoccupied with my boner for Craig.

My mom's just sort of…whacked out.

Her hair is neat, tucked back into a perfect, elaborate bun. Somehow the flawlessness of her appearance is just slightly askew. There's just something barely, almost wrong. I don't think anybody but me or Dad would notice.

She let a sauce stain get on her favorite sunflower apron, and that's what _really_ cues me on how badly I've fucked up.

"Tweek, sweetheart, you know we don't wear our shoes on the carpet," she says softly, through a tight smile. She runs a hand over my hair, trying to smooth it down into the hair of a normal-looking kid.

I'm actually only halfway on the carpet. My toes are on the tiled kitchen floor. I duck down and slip off my vans, arranging them neatly within one square tile of kitchen floor. This kind of bugs me, and I wish I could run back and put my shoes in their place on the rack beside the front door – but I don't think that's a good idea when my mom's like this. I'll let my misplaced shoes go, because I love my mom and well, she takes care of me when I get like this, too.

"I made your favorite," Mom says.

I afford a glance at the table. I think she means that she literally made every single food that I have ever told her is my favorite. I suddenly regret the potato chips I dined on over at Token's house.

I guess…I'm just going to have to sit at the table and eat everything that's made. It looks like my dad has eaten all that he can take.

I snag the seat beside my father and mutter, "Hey Dad," before loading a generous scoop of rosemary mashed potatoes onto my plate. _Jesus Christ_, I think. Mom got out her favorite china. It looks lacy around the edges, and is decorated with rows of little pink rosebuds. Mom's china collection will be the fucking end of me, I swear.

Mom clucks with her tongue and scolds, "Napkin, Tweek," before unfolding one herself and laying it across my lap.

So I eat.

I eat everything.

It's okay at first. My mom is a really good cook and an even better baker. Besides, potato chips in Token's basement don't really count as a meal, and didn't fill me up, anyway.

Dad and I don't talk. We just try to tuck away as much food as we can. I don't know how much he's eaten already, but I'm pretty sure that it's a lot. A lot more than I have so far.

Meanwhile, mom saunters back into our living room and fiddles with the stereo. She puts in a CD to play music, and I wonder if it'll be her usual dinner music, or mom-is-manic music. The answer is the latter, and I'm not surprised. As I work on a pile of buttered asparagus, The Andrews Sisters begin to sing. I think listening to the oldies makes my mom feel more like we're a classic nuclear family and less like a complete freakshow.

"_I'm aware…my heart is a sad affair…there's much disillusion there…"_

I realize that at least I can relate to this music.

It's nearly one in the morning before I've eaten all that I can. Or, at least, this is when Mom leaves, announcing that she's going to take a nap, like it's afternoon instead of the middle of the fucking night.

"Son?" my dad says tiredly. His eyes are drooping.

"Ngh- yeah Dad?"

"Would you do the dishes?" he indicates to the sink and the pink laminate counter surrounding it, where what looks like the Dish Apocalypse 2011has taken place. I want to refuse, but I know he's been sitting at the kitchen table shoveling food into his mouth for five hours – we _always_ sit down to dinner at seven o'clock in the evening. Always.

So, even though I'm achey and feel odd and my stomach hurts from all the food that I've eaten, I sigh, "Ngh, um, alright, Dad. Go to bed." This is my fault, anyway. She would have stopped cooking if I'd come home on time to eat dinner with the family.

At my words, my dad looks nothing short of relieved. He says, "Thanks, Tweek," before padding quietly up the stairs.

Unlike him, I am not relieved. I am frustrated with myself, and angry, and my whole body is throbbing. It takes a moment for me to motivate myself to get up out of my chair. When I do, I moan, because I've eaten so much that I want to go to sleep. I almost never need to go to sleep – when I do, it's scary.

But I can't go to fucking sleep, because of the goddamn fucking Dishpocalypse 2011.

So I set a pot of coffee to brew. I turn off the crooning voices of the Andrews Sisters and pace my way to my messenger bad, where I retrieve my iPod. I can listen to my own music now, music that doesn't sound like a lullaby. I don't listen to comforting ballads like my mom or chilled-out indie rock like Craig. Nope, it's thick beats and screaming for me. Mindless Self Indulgence and Emilie Autumn.

I start by loading the dishwasher with things that are allowed to be tossed in a machine.

"Jesus Christ," I complain to myself, because my mom put one and a half sets of hundred-year-old china to use, and those have to be scrubbed clean by hand – obviously.

I start drifting in and out of sleep.

I'm so disoriented that I accidentally rebrew the beans from my second pot of coffee to make the third, but so exhausted that I don't care. And I'm _so fucking agitated_ that I drag what's left of the Bailey's out of the refrigerator and pour a generous splash into my mug. The coffee-cream-alcohol combination sloshes over my hands.

I'm too tired to care.

It's when I break one of the rosebud plates that I really lose it. I fall asleep with that plate and a sponge in my hands. It isn't for long, only a few seconds, but those moments are enough for me to sway forward, losing my grip on both priceless china plate and sponge.

And so I cry.

I cry, because that's what you do when you're exhausted and irrational and half-drunk and you just broke an irreplaceable hundred-year-old plate.

This is how my mom finds me at six thirty in the morning. The dishes are almost all done. There's a frying pan and a couple of mugs at the bottom of the sink, but everything else has been washed, dried, and put away.

She's okay now, but I'm not.

"Tweek, sweetheart. I'll drive you to school today, okay?" she licks the pad of her thumb and cleans off a stain at the corner of my mouth. It's probably coffee and Bailey's. "It's just a plate, honey. Don't you worry about it," she adds, and I realize that I never cleaned up the pieces of china all over the kitchen floor, because I was too focused on getting the dishes clean.

**o.o.o.o**

I am somehow at school. There is a sticky note of my locker. I think it's from Craig, but I can't really tell. I'm all bleary-eyed from not sleeping and crying over a broken plate.

People notice I'm not okay, I think. Kyle Broflovski taps me on the shoulder and asks me if I'm okay. I don't even jump when he does. I just say, "Fine."

And then Bebe passes me and stops to ask if I'm alright too. And Thomas, and even Butters.

I just go to class.

There, Kenny crinkles up a sheet of notebook paper and tosses it at my head. I unfurl it. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus, and even then, it's hard to decipher his chicken scratch handwriting – this being in spite of the fact that the letters are huge and his chosen medium is a blue sharpie.

"_Dude wtf happened 2 you?"_

I can't work up the energy to write out a response. I'm using everything I've got to keep my eyes open. So, I roll the paper back into a ball, and heave it back. It's not a very good throw. The paper ball falls almost immediately to the classroom floor, rolling to a lazy stop about a foot and a half away from Kenny's right combat boot.

I wish I had more coffee. I really, really fucking wish that I did.

**o.o.o.o**

"Tucker! Tucker?"

Craig glances behind him. It's Kenny McCormick. Craig demands, "What the fuck do you want?"

Kenny scratches the back of his head (his hood, really). He doesn't particularly want to talk to Craig. Craig is an asshole. But – Tweek's kind of his friend, so he heaves a sigh and goes on, "Have you, um, seen Token? Token has a car, right?"

"Your little buddy Stan Marsh has one, too," points out Craig, voice flat. He twists in the combination to his locker. It jams, and he swears, flipping off the lock before trying a second time.

Kenny exasperatedly says, "Not today. His dad took it in to get the cracked windshield replaced."

"Too bad, dickhead," Craig states, "because Token can't drive you anywhere. He's out sick."

Kenny groans, rubbing a hand over his mostly-covered face. He says, "I'm not asking for myself, you raging ass-master. I'm asking for Tweek. I thought he was your friend or something."

Craig is quiet for awhile. He gathers his calculus binder and tucks it under his arm before asking, "What's wrong with Tweek?"

Kenny gets an odd look in his eyes, the kind of look that says '_I know something you don't know.'_ It makes Craig uncomfortable, especially since he can't see the rest of McCormick's expression with that stupid bandana he wears covering his mouth. Kenny answers, "I think he just needs someplace quiet to sleep."

Craig rolls his eyes, "Just take him to the nurse's office, then," he says. He closes his locker so softly that it barely makes the metallic click of being locked again. Craig walks quickly.

Kenny has to jog to catch up with him. He breathes, "Dude, weak. The nurse only lets you stay for a half an hour if you're just there to sleep, Tucker. Tweek needs to like, totally fucking crash." Craig doesn't stop walking toward his classroom. Kenny throws his hands up in the air and grinds out, "Why do I even bother talking to you? Fuck." With that, he veers and slogs off in the opposite direction, toward the school's front doors.

Craig stands still in the center of the hallway. A few other kids are shoving to get past him. A very distinct feeling rises up in the pit of his belly. Guilt.

"Goddamnit," Craig whispers to himself. He kicks a locker, before swiveling around on the heels of his converse and chasing after the orange parka that is retreating out of sight. "McCormick!" he calls.

Kenny turns.

Craig is panting when he pulls up to Kenny's side. He manages, "I drove my mom's car today. Tweek can sleep there."

Kenny smiles – at least Craig thinks that's what he's doing, but he can only judge by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes – and leads Craig outside. It's cold out, the biting kind of cold in which you can see your breath billow out in front of you, and you know snow is imminent. They dash across the street to the smoker's haven. It's just Tweek and he goth kids that are there. Tweek is on the hard, icy ground, which can't be comfortable, but he doesn't look like he's thinking about it. There's a forgotten cigarette in between two of his fingers, the ashes still clinging to the end of it.

Kenny pulls Tweek up by the back of the shirt. It's the same shirt that Tweek was wearing yesterday, notices Craig. He knows that dirty clothes drive Tweek crazy. Tweek must be _really_ fucking out of it.

"Tweek?" Craig hears Kenny say, snapping his fingers in front of the guy's face, "We found you a place to sack out." Kenny lifts his hand and points to Craig, who's standing uncomfortably with his hands in the pockets of his fleece-lined ski jacket.

Tweek stares hard at him, squinting, and says, "Craig?"

Kenny ushers Tweek forward and comments, "Yeah, buddy. Craig's gonna take care of you or not be a total douche or something."

**o.o.o.o**

Oh, Jesus Christ.

I don't know where I am. I've been kidnapped. I'm probably miles away from home. Oh my God. Holy shit. I shout out and kick my feet.

Okay, I'm not tied up or anything.

But my shoes are missing.

I sit up with a jolt. I _am_ in a car, but I'm not in the trunk like I thought I was, and the car isn't moving. I'm in the backseat, and it's night outside. It's snowing – not heavily, just a little. I hear shifting on the car's roof.

Legs appear on, the soles of somebody's shoes clunking against the driver's side window as they shimmy down, and my kidnapper leaps off and into the snow.

It's Craig.

Holy Christ, what happened? My head is heavy and my heart is pounding and my mouth is all dry. He opens the door near to my shoeless feet.

"You're up," Craig states, "You wanna go home?" There's a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and it makes his words sound funny.

Fucking hell, I need a cigarette. I pat the pocket of my jeans, but they're empty. Holy shit, I've been _robbed_. I howl, "God fucking damn it, somebody stole my cigarettes! And fuck, my phone was in that pocket too, and oh, shit. I need that. Oh Jesus – _ngh_ – oh man-"

"Tweek," Craig states.

I still like the way that my names sounds when he says it.

"Chill out," he finishes. He fishes in his pockets and pulls out three things, tossing ach into my lap, one at a time. The first is my pack of American Spirits, then my outdated cellphone, and my treasured iPod. Craig continues, "I needed a smoke and I didn't have mine on me – and I called your mom and told her that you're hanging out with me."

"What were you doing with my iPod, then?" I demand, because he's only explained two out of three pilfered items. I slide out a cigarette (he smoked like four of mine, not just one. Liar) and feel around for my lighter.

Craig murmurs, "Oh yeah," and throws my own lighter at me.

I light up, and inhale. The first drag off of a cigarette is always a thing of beauty. I press him, "So?"

"I wanted to see what other weird shit you listen to," he shrugs, like stealing the contents of my pockets while I'm asleep is the type of thing that a normal person would do.

"Ngh- what time is it? And where the fuck are we?" I ask.

Craig gives me a blank stare, "It's almost ten, and we're at Stark's Pond. I can drive you back if you're that fucking worried."

"You're such an asshole," I mutter. Craig flips me off.

I look out the back windshield, which is slowly becoming encrusted with snowflakes. We've been sitting here awhile, I guess, because the tire tracks are covered with a layer of soft snow at least an inch thick. I wonder if Craig was sitting on the roof of the car smoking that entire time. Probably, I judge, from the number of my cigarettes that have gone missing.

I try to add up the time while I look outside at the casually falling snow. I think Kenny made me leave school with him before second period, before it was even eight thirty. I was asleep for thirteen hours. In Craig's car. In the snow. It's not so bad in here, I guess. There's a 'fresh linen' Yankee Candle air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It sort of masks my not-so-pleasant aroma of body odor, stale coffee, and dishwashing liquid. I fucking hate dirty clothes.

At least I didn't fall asleep someplace weird. I've crashed in some pretty sketchy places (the worst of which was the bathroom of a roadside bar).

My hands are shaking like crazy. I can't get them under control. I think this is pissing off Craig because I'm holding a cigarette, and he doesn't want his car to go up in flames. Cosmetically, they look worse than usual, too, from washing all those dishes. My left one had dried blood shedding from a wound I can't find, and both are flaking skin.

I shift around, looking for my messenger bag. It's under a blanket on the strip of car floor beside me – the thick and scratchy kind of blanket that you sit on when picnicking. I realize that the blanket was probably on me, since I'm not cold despite sleeping in a car in the snow for thirteen hours. I must have knocked it down when I woke up.

I glance over at Craig and wonder if it was Craig or Kenny that thought of the blanket. Either way, it's nice that they thought of me, but I kind of want it to be Craig that had the idea.

Craig isn't looking at me. He's sitting on the very edge of the seat, puffing on the last of his (my) cigarette, gazing out at the frozen pond. I wonder how he isn't cold. It's not very windy outside, but there's enough of a breeze that some of the snow is blowing into the car through the open door. But then, he's wearing a coat. I was so exhausted this morning that I forgot mine. All I'm wearing is a cotton t-shirt that Bebe bought me a few months ago (she likes buying friends clothes, she says), and since it's soaked with sleep-sweat, I'm even colder.

When I start shuffling around in my bag, rifling around for my hand sanitizer and some Band-Aids, Craig does look at me. As I'm squeezing a drop of sanitizer into my palm, he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning my hands," I reply tartly.

"You retard," Craig states, "Hand sanitizer is only going to fuck them up more. Here." He crawls into the car, so close to me that I can hear him breathe, even though he's not touching me.

No, Craig leans forward between the driver's and passenger's seats. He knocks open the glove box and retreats back with a jumbo bottle of Lubriderm in his clutch – I only recognize what kind it is because I have the same bottle in my bathroom. At my expression, he says, "Fuck off, it's my mom's car. Moms have everything." He drops the bottle of lotion into my lap and then draws back to where he sat before. He casts his cigarette butt out into the snow. I can't see where it lands.

After I patch up my hands to the best of my ability, I put my messenger back on the floor and pull the scratchy wool blanket around me. It's kind of an ugly blanket, printed with black and red lumberjack plaid…but I'm sure I've never looked stupider in my life than I do now, so a tiny more ridiculousness fails to faze me. I find myself in my usual position – gazing at Craig. We're quite for a long while, with no sound at all but our own breath and my shivering.

But then –

"Why do you always stare at me?" he asks me, voice quiet.

"Maybe I have –_ngh–_ a morbid fascination with gigantic assholes," I suggest, surprised that I'm able to come up with such a quip in my current and not-so-ideal state.

He snorts and half-turns to blink back at me, where I'm sucking on the last of the cigarette in my fucked-up hands.

"Maybe I have a morbid fascination with pissy little coffee snobs," Craig says.

**o.o.o.o**

**I cannot give a bigger thank you to my reviewers this round. Seriously, you guys, I was legitimately filled with **_**glee**_** for the past two days because of all the nice things you're saying that I don't deserve. So, infinite thanks to: MariePierre, ObanesHarvest, Alex0821, Amberr-chan, glow vomit (Whose Creek story is a beautiful work of art that you need to go read, like, right now), NightmareMyLove, TheAwesome15, hootpoop12, R.R. Miaera (and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy that you feel warm and fuzzy, seriously), KirstenTheDestroyer, Qindarka (who also has an absolutely incredible Creek story but I'm pretty sure if you read Creek you're familiar with Aisle 10), PWN3D, kemikemikemi, Fetteranton (I KNEW IT. I **_**thought**_** it was Swedish, but I looked it up to be sure and imdb said it was Norwegian. I fixed it, thanks for the heads up), Scarlet Wolf, Wendlekins, blobbab (So flattered by that you don't even know), and the TheSlashEmpress.**

**Uh, wall of text, sorry.**

**By the way…Token's house is actually a lot based off of the house of one of my old friends. His parents are loooooaded, and that home theatre actually exists. **

**Questions/comments/suggestions/corrections? Hit me up. **


	5. When My Insides Gush Out

**Chapter Track: Horny Hippies – The Dodos**

Craig and I haven't spoken much since the day that I crashed in his mom's Nissan. At least out loud, anyway. There are still sticky notes on my locker every morning when I get to school, and I wonder how early he wakes up to be able to always put them there without me running into him.

After our "morbid fascination" discussion (as I have come to refer to it in my head), he climbed into the driver's seat on the car, and drove me back to my house. Unlike Token, Craig hardly waited from me to even exit the car to go rolling away down the street.

My mom was upset with herself for the day before. It took several hugs and apologies from her end in order for her to feel alright, even though the episode hadn't been any place close to the worst that I've seen. Besides, it definitely wasn't even in the same league as _me_, when I get that way.

I sometimes wonder if Mom was like me when she was a teenager. I hope so, because that would mean that I might be able to deal with myself when I'm older.

…I think that maybe I crossed a line with Craig or something. This pisses me off, and not at myself, either. I'm mad at him. _He_ was the one that let me sleep in his stupid fucking car. _He_ was the one that drove us out to Stark's Pond. And Christ, _he_ was the fucking one that asked me why I liked to stare at him. He shouldn't have asked if he didn't want an honest answer.

What an asshole.

I sit with them now at lunch, or at least, I have a few times. I rapidly discover that Token is the only one that will make any effort to include me in the conversation. It's a difficult task, to be fair. I don't care about Craig beating his record time in his track-whatever, and I really to don't care about Clyde and his football friends. I actively hate the guys on the football team, except Stan, I guess. But he doesn't sit with the other team members, anyway. I feel like the rest of them always look at me funny. And they talk to me – _if_ they talk me – like they think they might set off a bomb.

So, today, when I see Craig and Token and Clyde nestled among the beefy ranks of South Park High's football team, I opt to eat in the bathroom, instead. Right now, my lack of desire to interact with humanity overrides my aversion to germs.

I choose the upstairs bathroom, the one I jerk off in. I'm pretty sure it's the bathroom that everybody jerks off in. Which is gross. It's just…secluded. It's at the very end of the hall, beyond all the classrooms and a couple yards away from the very last locker, right next to the ghost-town back stairs that nobody ever uses. In short, it's perfect for privacy. Whether that's for getting yourself off, or smoking because it's too cold outside, or even eating your lunch by yourself is up to your discretion. Nobody cares.

It is also (fortunately) empty for me today. I choose the last stall, as always, because it's the cleanest. I climb up so I'm sitting on the toilet with my feet resting on the bowl. That way, I can balance my bento box on my knees.

I wonder if it's weird that I'm seventeen and my mom still packs my lunches for me every day. She even writes little messages on my napkins, like she's been doing since I was in elementary school. Today's napkin reads "You are my sunshine," and there's a sun with a smiley face on it.

She made me a bologna and Swiss cheese with the crusts cut off, like I like them. I've never known how to feel about bologna. It seems suspicious to me. But then, I notice that she also used honey mustard, and I am of the opinion that honey mustard makes almost anything taste good.

I'm sucking my fingers clean when I bathroom door squeals open. When this happens – people coming into the bathroom, I mean – I always make myself really quiet, and sort of hunch over. I know that they can't see me in the stall, anyway, but it makes me feel safer. Kind of like how in the middle of the night, I feel safe when there's a blanket wrapped around me and I'm all tucked in like a burrito. It doesn't make sense that my brain tells me a burglar or monster or something would see my blanket and say, "Oh fuck, that kid's in a blanket," but my brain doesn't thrive much on logic.

"Dude, come on, why are you acting so bitchy? You've been so fucking _sullen_ for like, days. Like, more than usual," that was definitely Clyde's voice.

"'Sullen is a pretty big word for you, Clyde," sneers Craig's voice – a little less monotone than usual, his words come out like acid. I am now very interested in this conversation. A mere ten minutes ago, I saw these two sitting at their usual table in the cafeteria downstairs.

I lean forward and peer through the crack between the stall door and wall. I'm suddenly grateful for my awkwardly long torso, which gives me the ability to pull off such a maneuver.

Craig looks agitated. I mean, he always does, sort of. Craig has the kind of eyebrows that make a person look like they have perpetual angry eyes, unless they smile. And Craig doesn't smile. If he does, I haven't seen it. But, the point remains, he's actually wearing a look on his face, and it's kind of a scary one.

Clyde folds his arms and sticks his tongue out at Craig. He argues, "We're not talking about my vocabulary, babe. We're discussing what has your panties in a knot."

Craig presses his palms against the bathroom counter (I hope that he remembers to wash his hands after touching that shit). He leans forward and stares into his own eyes, He's quiet now, very quiet. It isn't his usual I-don't-have-anything-to-contribute-to-your-stupid-conversation quiet. It's the variety of quiet that a person assumes when they don't want to tell you something.

He's still gazing at his reflection in the mirror when he asks raggedly, "Clyde, is there anything I could do to make you stop wanting to hang out with me." It's one of his statement-questions again.

Clyde frowns, looking legitimately hurt. He says, "Dude. Bros for life." When Craig doesn't say anything back, Clyde queries, "Is this like…about the boner you have for Tweek?"

My heart starts beating erratically.

"I don't have a boner for Tweek," Craig states. I'm upset by this. I stop feeling glittery and start feeling pissed off at stupid fucking Craig again, and I'm mad at Kenny for suggesting that Craig might not be straight, but I'm more mad at myself for giving credence to something said by Kenny McCormick. This anguish lasts until Craig's next words: "It's just a…_thing_." And I want to laugh, because that's exactly what I said. I don't laugh, though, because I don't want them to know that I'm eavesdropping. So, I hold my hand over my nose and mouth, and try to hold my breath instead.

"I don't care if you're gay, dude," Clyde says.

"I'm not," replies Craig. I find this confusing, because I am a guy and he is a guy, and if we're guys that want to bone each other…well, I mean, I guess there are other things he could be, like, bisexual or something. Craig doesn't look sure about what he's saying as he mumbles, "I don't want to be. I do not want to be gay. I am not."

"Look, bro, I'm sure your dad'll come-"

"No, Clyde, my dad will not fucking 'come around.' He has my whole life planned out. If he found out that I have a fucking thing for a dude, he'll boot me out of our house. You know that," I think that these are the most words that I have ever heard Craig string together all at once.

"Dude, your mom wouldn't let him," Clyde says pointedly.

"Do you know how fucking awkward my house would become if that happened." Another question-statement. Craig finally turns away from the mirror and slouches, ass to counter, folding his arms over his chest.

"What about Ruby?"

"My sister is a twat. I love her, but she is a twat," says Craig. I didn't even know that he has a sister, and I feel a little bad about that.

Clyde sighs. I guess he must be used to Craig being difficult – they _have_ been friends for as long as I can remember. It looks like Clyde is struggling to come up with the right thing to say. He's fiddling with the zipper on his red and white letterman jacket, pulling it all the way up, and then back down again. Finally, he releases another flustered breath, and inquires, "Do you even intend to pursue Tweek? Aren't you like, too lazy?"

Craig sniffs at this and raises his middle finger.

Clyde rolls his eyes, "Whatever, man. But just so you know, you're my brother. Bros don't walk out on bros. Even if one of the bros wants Tweek's dick. _And to be fair_ – and I'm not like, into your man or anything, I still like tits too much – he is kind of dashing. From an objective standpoint, of course."

"Dashing," repeats Craig, side-eyeing Clyde.

"Long blond hair, tall-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Craig says. He pauses, and after a moment's hesitation, puts a hand on Clyde's shoulder. "Clyde," he says, "It's um, nice to remember why I'm friends with your dumb ass."

A maniacal grin breaks out onto Clyde's face. He wraps an arm around Craig and tugs him into a hug, "That's very sweet of you, Craig. I like it when you pretend you're not a total douche."

Craig struggles to get Clyde off of him, and manages after a few moments to shove him backward. Clyde just cackles, an impish smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He chuckles, "Alright, man. I'm gonna get a second slice of pizza before the line closes. You coming?"

"I need to take a piss. I'll be there in five," responds Craig. He waits, arms still crosses, until Clyde has laughed his way out of the bathroom. He stands still, and I feel like I should stop looking at him if he's going to pee. But then he snarls, looking down the double rows of stalls, "Okay, mouth-breather. You can stop listening in on private conversations."

Oh, Jesus tap dancing Christ.

I jump, and my bento box drops to the floor, clattering open and sounding the alarm. My foldable fork and spoon roll out onto the scummy-looking linoleum and onto some damp toilet paper that is sticking to the floor in the stall next to mine. Gross. Grossgrossgross.

Despite this, I feel on top of the world after hearing that conversation.

I mean, Craig has a thing for me. That's what he said. I'm not making this up in my head. He really said that he has a thing for me, just like I have a thing for him. This is so exciting that I don't even care that my lunch got all over the disgusting ground.

I slide down off of my perch and unlock the stall door.

"Tweek," Craig states, though he looks legitimately surprised as I emerge, "You…heard that."

I cough softly and respond, "Ngh – um, every word."

"Why are you eating in the bathroom." He asks – but I am not letting him change the subject, not now. Nope. Not when I'm so close to getting what I've wanted so badly for what feels like forever.

Craig has this look on his face that should be blank, but isn't. He looks anticipant, sort of…nervous. I'm making him nervous. Jesus Christ, that is fucking awesome. I've never made somebody nervous before. It's always the other way around.

Craig's throat bobs gently as he swallows. That's what sends me walking forward.

My feet move toward him of their own accord, but I don't disagree with their judgment. Craig backs up against the wall between the automatic hand dryers. I only answer his question once I'm a few centimeters from our noses touching. I say, "I hate crowds." My words are breathy because I tried so hard to hold my breath, and now I'm so brainless I think I'm forgetting that I need air. I'm forgetting basic functions. I'm forgetting that this should be scaring me.

Craig is only a couple inches shorter than me, someplace in the realm of 5'10" or 5'11", but when I plant my palms on the wall and lean down, he seems smaller, like he's shrunk or something. I am so happy. So happy I can rile him up like this. So happy I upset his routine and so fucking happy that he might be feeling the same mindless, heart-pounding buzz that I am.

He's so goddamned attractive. His thick brows, his straight, maybe-too-big nose, the layer of dark stubble shadowing his jaw. Jesus Christ. It is perfection to me.

When I duck down and connect our mouths, that's what it feels like. Like I am kissing perfection. He's very still at first, but after a few long, painful seconds, he makes a stretched, low noise in throat, and grabs onto my t-shirt, jerking me closer with his fists full of fabric.

The temperature is rising. My palms are sweaty and cold. I can't think. There's just buzzing in my ears.

Craig shoves me back – not away. I think he wants to take control, but I'm having too much fucking fun being the one in charge. There's this weird surge inside of me knowing that I'm finally getting into somebody's head. _I'm_ fucking with somebody's mind. Me. And I like it. Oh Christ, do I like it.

He grunts when I push him back with my hands and tongue. Craig tastes good, so good that I could cry. He tastes like sharp spearmint gum and warmth and fucking perfection.

I trap him against the wall with my legs – Thank you, Jesus, for giving me long legs – pinning him there while our tongues and tangled together. He moans when I rub my pelvis against his, pulling me even closer. Our ankles tangle together. I love it. I love this. I love his smell and his taste and his Craig-ness.

I reach up and pull off his hat. I haven't seen it off in years. Hair black hair is short, maybe a couple centimeters, but it's soft, and fucking perfect for my hands. It feels nice between my fingers as I move down and bite his neck. He makes a small noise.

"Um."

We hear a cough at the door.

Craig and I propel away from each other.

Stan Marsh is standing with his books up against his chest, blushing furiously. He stammers, "I'll, um. Use another bathroom. Uh, sorry about – that. You know." He backs up a few steps, and then makes a run for it.

Craig yanks his hat out of my grip and pulls is back onto his head. His face is bright red, and he won't look at me.

"Craig-" I begin.

"Don't talk to me," he says firmly. He heads toward the door. He pauses, and for a second I think he might be about to change his mind. Instead, he commands, "Don't talk about this. To anyone."

"I won't," I whisper, but he's already gone.

**o.o.o.o**

I spend my time at work feeling sorry for myself. I feel so morose that I'm not quite as shaky as usual. I've only spilled one drink tonight, and we're about fifteen minutes away from closing time. The spill wasn't even fault, either. Bebe and I crashed into each other and it flew out of my hands.

The entire shop is empty.

I guess this is why Bebe feels comfortable asking me, "So, how was it?"

"How was w-what?" I stutter out, and I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

"Aw, c'mon, Tweek," she says pleadingly, "You've never stopped talking about Craig for like, the whole time I've known you, and _now_ you decide to shut up about it? I want details, boy!"

She's right, and I know that. But I just clip, "How did you find out?"

"Wendy."

"How did Wendy-" I start, but I realize that Stan is dating Wendy, so of course he'd tell her what he saw Craig and me doing. I hope to fucking Christ that Stan didn't look down far enough to see that both of us had gotten hard-ons during our, um, entanglement. I heave a sigh, and then report in a tiny voice, "He asked me not to talk, Bebe."

"Oh," she said, and a couple beats later, she repeats with realization, "_Oh_."

"Ngh – yeah," I reply dejectedly. I'm relieved, so very, very relieved, that it is a Friday. I can shut myself in my room for two days and play computer games until my brain is deader than shit, or I could drive down to Denver and put the fake ID I bought from Kenny to good use. Meaningless sex sounds kind of nice, especially after being cockblocked by Stan Marsh.

I wheel the mop and broom out of the back room. Bebe and I go through the nightly Harbucks rituals robotically, and without speaking. I think that Bebe wants to play her music, but she knows that I'm not in the mood for her typical, upbeat fare, so we leave the store silent.

As I mop, her phones goes off, playing some chirpy Aqua song. I watch as she checks the caller ID on the front screen – it says "Booty Call," and I venture a guess that that must be the name she put in for Kenny. She goes to the back to answer it.

Bebe is only gone for a few minutes, but when she returns, a huge grin stretches all the way across her face. I do not like the implications of this grin.

"Listen," she says, "I know that you probably want to be left alone-"

"Yes," I interrupt, voice crisp.

She ignores me and goes on, as if I said nothing, "But Kenny and I have an idea. Why don't we spend the night at your house with you? Kenny says that if you agree, he'll let me paint his nails."

That does sound kind of interesting.

Damn it.

I don't think that this was Bebe's idea. I think that Kenny put her up to this. They are conspiring against me in an effort to force me to let them cheer me up. Manipulative dicks.

"If you want, I can paint your nails, too," Bebe offers.

I shakes my head rapidly and say, "I have ugly hands."

"Please, Tweek," she begs. She doesn't touch me, because she knows that I don't like it. Bebe does, however, stick out her lower lip and make her eyes big in a purposefully melodramatic pout. She clasps her hands together, and I think she's about to literally get down onto her knees to plead.

I stop her.

"_Okay_. Fine," I say, and I have no idea why I've allowed myself to agree to this.

**o.o.o.o**

Two hours later, I still have no idea why I agreed to let Bebe Stevens and Kenny McCormick spend the night at my house.

Instead of getting upset that I've invited strange teenagers into her home and sending them back to their own houses, my mom is just excited that I do, in fact, have people that are willing to call themselves my friends. She offers to whip up a batch of her homemade caramel corn – and evidently, any qualms about the pride Kenny has involving accepting offers of food go void, right then.

I don't want to let them into my bedroom. It's too private to me. It's my haven…and I don't like when people touch my stuff.

So, instead, we pile up blankets and sleeping bags in the family room (which is uncomfortable as fuck to me, because three teenagers in my house is like ten million bulls in one china shop). I set up my sleeping area as far away as possible from the antique cabinet as I can. I fucking hate this room. It makes me think that this was not a good idea at all and I feel like I've been bamboozled into believing that it was.

Kenny says that we all need to "chill the fuck out" before any nail-painting is to occur. This is annoying, because the convincing factor in letting them storm my home was that Bebe would paint Kenny's nails. I don't know why I find that fucking entertaining but I do.

His idea of "chilling the fuck out," apparently, is Rock Band Two.

"Haven't you ever played Rock Band, dude?" he asks, when I look stupidly at the massive controllers he loaded into Bebe's car when we picked him up from his place. They are now crowding my family room.

I wring my hands together and answer, "Um. Ngh, no. I only play PC games."

Kenny stares at me like I'm growing a dick out of my face.

I feel a little embarrassed that I'm as out of touch with technology as I am…but so? I'm content with just playing The Sims. I love making happy gay couples on it. If some of the couples happen to look like me (a more suave, put-together version) and Craig (fine the way he is), then that is just coincidence.

This thought makes me feel bad all over again.

"Dude, dude," Kenny says, snapping his fingers in front of my face, "Don't worry about it. We'll put you on easy. It's not hard to pick up." He has mistaken the reason for my distress to be my lack of Rock Band knowledge, when it reality, I do not give a shit about Rock Band.

"You can pick the songs if you want," Bebe offers.

They're both being so nice to that it's all I can do to accept the plastic guitar controller from Kenny's outstretched hand. Bebe helps me adjust the strap so it sits right on my shoulder, while Kenny plugs his Xbox 360 into our ten year old television.

I'm mollified, I guess, so I give the song-choosing reins to them. Most of the music on the game isn't my thing, anyway.

After we start the game, I realize that Bebe might be the only one of us paying the slightest bit of attention to playing it. She's bounding on her feet a little as she belts out the lyrics to 'We Got the Beat,' along with the game. She has a good singing voice. I wonder how I forgot this in the first place, because she usually has a big part in the school musical every year.

I'm pressing buttons lackadaisically, and definitely at random, because I'm still thinking of Craig. I feel a sharp pain in my chest and wish that I could just think of something else. I can't. Even if my insides didn't hurt so much, I would still have beard burn from rubbing my cheek up against his stubble.

Kenny is banging on the drum set with alarming accuracy, considering he is not looking at it much at all. He's actually staring at Bebe's ass while she bounces around a sings. I don't blame him – if I was a straight guy, I'd probably stare too. She's as curvaceous on bottom as she is in the chest region. And, well, she's wearing these tiny little pajama shorts printed with kittens playing with balls of yarn.

We lose. Twice, before Kenny at last submits to having his fingernails painted.

Bebe has a lot of nail polish.

I mean _a lot_.

So much so, in fact, that though I am not an authority on either nail polish or the owners thereof, I feel confident in saying that Bebe has a nail polish collection vastly larger than average.

"Can I choose two colors?" asks Kenny pensively, plucking up a bottle of powder blue polish and holding it up at eye level, "Do these have like, fancy names or some shit?"

"Do you want me to paint each of your nails with both colors or do you want them to alternate?" queries Bebe, "And the names are on the bottom." She takes Kenny's free hand and works a nice, herbal-smelling lotion into his skin, before rubbing a pink block over his nails.

"What the fuck is that?" I ask.

"A buffer," she responds, focused on the task at hand.

"I don't see where – oh. 'Breathe Life' sounds way too fruity to be painted on _my_ nails," Kenny sniffs. I can't help but laugh at this. He sticks up his middle finger at me and picks up another bottle, this one bubblegum pink. He flips it over and reads, "'Feelin' Hot Hot Hot.' Nice. I want this one."

"Are you picking colors based – ngh – on their names?" I ask.

"Problem?" he lifts a brow. Kenny passes the pink to Bebe and scouts for his second color, "This looks promising!" he exclaims, but frowns at the title. He picks up a few more candidates, only to put them back on the carpet where Bebe arranged them all.

"Oh, _yes_. Just fuck _yes_," he remarks at a sparkly silver one. It is called 'Servin' Up Sparkle.'

Bebe sets to work. She has to scold Kenny once or twice for not holding still enough, but I think his fingernails look nice, even if they are a little messed up.

"So, dude," he drawls, observing his right hand, which is complete with alternating 'Feelin' Hot Hot Hot' and 'Servin' Up Sparkle,' "what the fuck happened with you and Craig?"

"He doesn't want me to talk about it," I mutter.

"Tweek, dude, you're like really upset about this," Kenny says, "We already know it happened anyway, we just don't know exactly what all went down. We're your friends. You can tell us about this."

"But you don't _have_ to," Bebe adds, "It might just make you feel better."

"I will guilt you into it, man," Kenny warns, "Do you know, when I called Bebe, I was hoping to get some tail? But I am here, instead."

"Kenny!" Bebe sends him a look that could kill.

So I tell them what happened. I detail as much as I can remember about overhearing Craig and Clyde's conversations, and try to relay the details of kissing Craig and being interrupted by Stan. Kenny mutters something about Stan and his timing. I decide to let Bebe touch my gross hands and paint my nails, too, as I speak. Because I think Kenny's look nice.

Bebe doesn't comment on how disgusting they look. She doesn't say anything about them, which I appreciate. She just peels off my Band-Aids and gives them to Kenny to throw away. The lotion is cold when it touches me and stings when she smooths it in, less aggressively than she did with Kenny.

When I'm done with the sordid tale of what transpired in the upstairs bathroom, Kenny states, "Dude."

"Ngh – what?" I reply, though I think that that might have been a rhetorical 'dude.'

"He totally has a boner for you," Kenny finishes, "he just doesn't want to acknowledge that he likes dick yet. That shit is hard. Even if your parents are cool, it's hard to come out, and it sounds like his dad might freak out if he finds out that his son likes it up the butt," he stuffs a handful of caramel corn into his mouth. While chewing, Kenny goes on, "Just be gentle with him, man. I don't think Tucker was ready to be boned in a public restroom."

I throw my pillow at him. Bebe scolds me for moving.

"You're telling me that it wasn't hard for you to come out?" Kenny presses.

"I didn't come out, really," I reply, "Ngh – well, everybody already knew."

"What about your parents?" asks Bebe.

"They came out for me," I say, "We were having dinner. And I was like, twelve. I said 'I have something I need to tell you guys,' and my dad said, um, 'We know you like boys. Pass the salad.'"

Kenny laughs so hard that he clutches his stomach in mirth. He bangs his fist against the carpet, knocking down some of the bottles of nail polish and making them clink together. He gasps, "Holy shit. That would happen to you. Oh, man." He scrubs a man over his eyes and barks out a last hoot before sobering. He says, "Seriously, though. Just tell him you're sorry or something. Tucker's a giant douche, but he'll come around for you."

I hope that Kenny's right. Craig makes me feel all knotted up and glittery inside. I don't like him hating me. If he went back to not knowing that I existed, I'd be happier than I am now. Though I would prefer if my feelings were reciprocated and we could fuck each other.

I blush.

I don't want to think about it.

Or maybe I do, just not with people around.

"Tweek," do you want me to draw stars or something?" Bebe takes these pen-things out of her overnight back. They're nail polish pens or something. I look at her handiwork so far. My hands do look nicer than they have in awhile. Though my nails are extremely short from all my biting, Bebe managed to smooth out the tops. I chose a dark purple color called 'Plugged-In Plum.' My beat up hands are kind of red and blotchy, so maybe the color doesn't go, but I don't care.

"Hey, why didn't I get any fancy designs?" whines Kenny.

"Well, what do you want?"

Kenny considers this for a moment and then decides, "Penises."

"_What?_ Why?" Bebe groans.

"Because it's fucking funny."

As they bicker, I stare out of the window. Last week's snow is already hard and crusty and dirty, retreating to the very edges of people's lawns and little shadowed corners that the sun never quite reaches.

Then I see him.

Craig.

I only recognize him by his hat, because it's dark outside. He's wearing gray hoodie and track pants, just jogging along the road. His face is briefly illuminated when he changes the song on his iPod. This all looks exactly the last time that Bebe and I got high, except that I'd convinced myself that I'd made up seeing him with the help of the weed.

Craig slows to halt.

He looks at me.

But it feels like he's looking right through me.

**o.o.o.o**

On Monday, the note on my locker reads:

_Horny Hippies – The Dodos_

I take it down, fold it in half, and stick it in the pocket of my jeans. We have reverted back to some level of normalcy, I guess, but after that kiss, I don't think that that is entirely possible. Still…I don't know what it's like to have a family that might not accept me. My parents are okay with everything that I do.

So I swallow my pride and the pissed-off feeling I get when I remember how our last encounter ended. I write on my own note:

_I'm sorry._

When I return from first period, a new post-it decorates the center of my locker. In tight, neat handwriting, it reads:

_There is nothing to be sorry for._

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you so much to: ObanesHarvest, MariePierre, TheAwesome15, theyellowsky, KirstenTheDestroyer, chaos-chychy, WizerdBeards and NightmareMyLove. You guys are the people that make me want to keep writing. **

***Side note, I do not own those nail polish colors. OPI does. Because Bebe is classy as fuck and will only use OPI. **

**I'm sorry if there are any typos. I did not edit this one because I am lazy.**


	6. How Do I Find My Way?

**Chapter Track: Distorting a Code – Spinnerette**

This week has been hellishly awkward.

Token and Clyde keep inviting me to hang out with them, but Craig doesn't say anything, and so I don't go. I like hanging out Token and Clyde and Craig (even if Clyde is too touchy-feely for my tastes), but I don't know whether or not Craig told them about us kissing in the upstairs bathroom. I don't think that he did – Token seems unaware, perhaps slightly suspicious (but then, I think everybody knows something about me that I don't want them to know) and Clyde is just…Clyde. If Clyde knows, it's because he has a creepy sixth sense when it comes to things that he can use to tease people. Well-meaning teasing, I think.

Plus, Clyde already knows about our _thing _for each other. Or, rather, Craig's thing for me. If it still exists. I really, really hope it does. The question of whether or not Craig's thing for me still exists is plaguing my brain, like I have never been plagued before. I get wrapped up in my own head a lot, so this is saying a lot. He has made no indication on the matter, so here I am, left fucking guessing what's in his mind. Does he have any feelings on the matter whatsoever? It's weird to think or Craig and feelings going together. He's an asshole.

But everybody has feelings, right?

Or maybe I'm a hopeless creeper.

Maybe he just doesn't know how to deal with feelings. I mean, couldn't this just have to do with the whole my-dad-doesn't-want-me-to-be-gay thing? I suppose Craig himself said that he doesn't want to be gay, either, though…

I've never known what that feels like. Not wanting to be gay, I mean. I can remember as far back as six and telling, like, outright informing my mom that I liked kissing boys (this being on the day before I kissed Butters Stotch at recess. I am still certain that he kissed me back, but Mrs. Stotch somehow found out and our families are still a little at odds to this day). When I told her, in those exact words, she just said, "You know I love you no matter who you like kissing, right, sweetheart?"

To which I naturally responded, "Mooo-ooom," because you're supposed to be embarrassed by your mother when you're six, I guess.

I could probably come up with like a hundred of these instances in which my parents showed me that they didn't mind my homosexuality at all. Once, when I was thirteen, my dad came back from the grocery store with a _Teen Scene_ magazine that had Aaron Carter on the cover – when Aaron Carter was an actual thing, still – because he'd remembered that I accidentally let slip at the dinner table that I thought Aaron Carter was cute.

To this day, that memory makes me feel embarrassed. But it's the principle of the thing: My parents are great. They haven't once judged me for any of my stupid antics (not that I haven't been grounded from time to time – grounding dramatically increased during my brief stint as a friend of Stan and them).

So, Craig is in some weird place that I have never had to be in, it seems. Ironically, I think the person that might understand Craig's predicament is Kenny – and I don't think that there's anybody those two hate more than each other. It's just that Kenny likes girls _and_ boys. I mean, okay, Kenny's kissed me before. He's stopped since I started being vocal about my thing for Craig, but he used to do it like, all the time.

And okay, it went a lot further than that once.

But it was _once_.

And I accidentally called him Craig when it happened. Another thing that humiliates me when I think about it.

Actually, that might have been what made him stop kissing me.

Point is, Kenny McCormick comes from a conservative household. I highly doubt that they'd be thrilled to find out that he does stuff with dudes, too, and not just Bebe.

There's a haughty cough from in front me, and then, "Uh…excuse me…Tweek? Are you gonna like take our orders, or what?"

Two familiar girls are up at the counter, both of them around fourteen. One is squinting at the nametag pinned to my Harbucks apron like she doesn't believe that my name is really Tweek. The other has her arms folded, and is staring at me, one brow lifted, like she's appraising the blue ribbon pig at the county fair. The expression and stance combine to make her look distinctly Craig-like.

I belatedly ask them, "Ngh – um, what can I get for you?"

"I can't afford Harbucks, Ruby," says the squinter – Karen, Kenny McCormick's sister. I recognize her from around town, naturally – it's not hard to run into the same people in a town as small as South Park – but mostly from the night that Bebe and I let Kenny and Karen into the shop and we all got high together. She looks more like Kevin than Kenny, with light brown hair she's pulled back with a gingham headband. Her clothes look cheap, like Wall-Mart clothes. I'll bet that that is exactly what they are.

What catches my eye, though, are the woven friendship bracelets running up her arms, practically all the way from wrist to elbow. Kenny makes those things all the time. While we're smoking, at the night at my house he taught Bebe how to make them, but he mostly makes them in class instead of paying attention. He says he does it because he's crap at doodling (when he does draw, the pictures tend to be stick figures in varying obscene positions – usually on Kyle Broflovski's homework, because Kyle is the most embarrassed by it).

I look down at my own bony wrist – Kenny's made me a couple bracelets, too. He calls them "broship" bracelets. I think they look cool – he made mine with intricate geometric patterns in bright string. I kind of wish that I could make them myself, but it's too hard.

Ruby says, "It's okay, dude, my mom let me borrow her card."

Karen brightens at this and remarks, "Oh, sweet! Could I have, um, a grande raspberry frappuccino?"

"You know those are overpriced milkshakes, right?" Ruby queries wryly.

I can't help it. I snort.

"What's your problem?" Ruby asks.

"Uh, nothing. It's just that – ngh – your brother said the same thing to Clyde," I murmur, "is there anything else I can get you?"

"Is there anything _good_?" retorts Ruby.

Now I _really_ can't help it. I just laugh. All out barking, hooting laughter erupts. She's like a…younger girl-Craig. Ruby Tucker is a total dick. Maybe that's why Craig called her a twat. Because they are just so fucking similar – down to the fact that she's wearing a "South Park High School Cross Country" sweatshirt.

"What's your problem, dickhole?" she demands. My manager glances over sharply, stepping over to intervene, but I wave her off with an "it's okay, I know them" gesture.

"Ngh – nothing, nothing," I chuckle, unable to wipe the stupid smile off of my face, "I'll just make you the drink I make for your brother. That'll be um, eight dollars and sixty seven cents." Ruby passes me her mom's credit card, which I swipe and return.

"You make Craig a special drink? No wonder he has a boner for you," Ruby shrugs.

Before I can even open my mouth, let alone respond, she and Karen trot off to the table near the front window – the table that Craig and Clyde and Token always take. This makes me chuckle even more.

But still, as I'm whipping up the Craig Special, I wonder who would know more on the subject of Craig's alleged boner for me: His best bro, or his younger sister. He'd be more likely to willingly tell Clyde, I think, but I'd place my bet on Ruby – I hear tell that little siblings are experts at getting into one's shit and/or prying the desired information out of you, both of which Ruby Tucker seems entirely capable of. Clyde, despite constant cheerfulness and being a bit of a pest, tends to let things go until people are ready to talk about them or he judges it time for an intervention.

When I bring over the frappuccino and Craig Special to their table, Ruby orders – definitely does not request – "Sit with us."

I hesitate for a moment, tugging a bit at my scraggly hair. Ruby kicks the available chair at me. It hits me in the knees.

"Jesus Christ, okay," I say, and call back to my shift manager, "Rhonda, I'm gonna take my – ngh – fifteen." She signals an okay, and I sit in the chair I was assaulted with. When I pull into the table, my first instinct is to avoid looking at the girls. Instead, I chip away at the nail polish on my hands. I would feel guilty about ruining Bebe's hard work, but peeling at the polish has stopped me from peeling my skin, giving my cuticles much-needed albeit temporary relief.

Ruby and I engage in what seems to be some sort of stare-off. I think she might be taller than Craig – like, she got her dad's genes. Thomas Tucker is huge, like lineman huge.

One time, when I was sitting with Craig and Token and Clyde at lunch, Clyde said something about Ruby growing up to be "scary sexy, like a Viking."

Craig punched Clyde in the face.

Hard.

Besides, Ruby has a fourteen-year-old version of Mrs. Tucker's body. So she's like a tall, red-headed version of her mom, I guess.

"Why does your brother have dark hair?" I blurt out. Jesus Christ. I blush and put my hands in my face, muttering, "Ngh – don't listen to me."

Ruby opts not to listen to my command to not listen, and replies, "We theorize that he's either a bastard child or adopted. I'm pretty sure that it's the first one, but he's too lazy to care. I guess you got him to take off that ugly fucking hat, then?"

I could have told her that I'd seen his hair when we were kids. I _should_ have. Instead, I jabber, "I took it off of him."

Karen giggles. Ruby smirks. She says, "Oh yeah?"

I'm really glad that I don't have younger siblings of my own, I decide. I feel like I'm in a noir film-type interrogation right now, with a beam of light shining on my face, and two suited detectives in fedoras scaring the shit out of me. In reality, I am in Harbucks with two fourteen-year-old girls. Ruby Tucker had her hair in pigtails. She should not be able to be as intimidating as she is.

"How'd you get his hat off of him?" she inquires, wearing a shit-eating grin.

"None of your – ngh – business," I state with finality.

This has the opposite effect of what I had hoped would happen. Her smirk seems to double in size and she prods slyly, "Oh, _yeah_? What if I told you that I already know what you and Craig did?"

"You already know we kissed?" I betray.

Fuck.

"Nope. But I do now," she commented, taking her first sip of the Craig Special, "Huh. This isn't bad, for Harbucks. Anyway, I knew that _something_ happened. Even if I didn't watch his video diaries, he'd still be acting weird as hell."

"Craig has a diary?" I ask.

"Video diary," corrects Ruby, matter-of-factly, "He says in his first entry that he thinks paper diaries are for pussies. Unfortunately for him, he probably could have hidden a notebook more easily from his computer hacker sister." She twirls an escaped lock of red hair on her finger innocently, but looks absolutely evil.

I think that I might be gaping. "Jesus – that's totally wrong," I say.

"And so, so right," she replies.

"You're not gonna like, start working or the government or something, are you?" I demand, "Ngh – my shit is private. I don't want you in it." I've never met a computer hacker, and it's making react stupidly. I'm stammering. My palms are sweating. I begin to pick more vigorously at my Plugged-In Plum nail polish. Bebe will definitely be disappointed at how little her manicure lasted.

She takes another swig of the Craig Special, "Not if you tell me first."

What an asshole.

Sneaky _fucker_.

I am so glad that I am an only child.

"So," she goes on, "you kissed my brother?"

"I'm not supposed to talk about it," I protest, "Craig doesn't want your dad to know."

Ruby's expression softens at that. She says, without wearing her evil smirk this time, "I'm not gonna tell our dad, stupidass. I'm not retarded. I just want to know for the sake of being in Craig's business. It annoys him and makes me happy. Now spill, faggot."

"Ngh – what if I don't?" I ask crossly. If she's not going to tell Mr. Tucker, I don't see what she could possibly want with the intimate details of me and Craig kissing in the school bathroom. I do not like this. I do not like my business being got into.

Especially not if it might hurt Craig. I put my foot down at Craig being collateral damage of my big mouth. My lips are sealed.

"I'll tell him that you dropped coffee on me."

"I drop coffee on everybody," I say.

Ruby considers this for a moment and then threatens, "I'll tell him that you were mean to me."

She looks smug.

I think that siblings were created by Satan. That is the only explanation for Ruby Tucker.

If he thinks I was mean to Ruby, he won't like me anymore. He'll hate me. I don't want Craig to hate me at all. I want him to like me. I want him to like me enough that we can start talking out loud again instead of just on sticky notes. I want him to like me enough that we can kiss more. I want to touch him again. I want to steal his hat so that I can always have my hands in his hair.

I won't get any of those things if Ruby follows through with her threat. I know that they call each other lots of names but I think that they might like each other alright, and I know that they love each other.

I tug at my hair and blabber, "Jesus. Fine. Ngh – we kissed in the bathroom at school and I took off his hat so I could touch his hair and it was the best thing ever until stupid fucking Stan Marsh walked in on us." I manage this all in one breath. My face is bright red – I can't see it in the window in front of me, since we painted Santa on it, but I feel like most of the blood in my body is in my cheeks.

Ruby whistles, "Cock blocked? That sucks."

"Kenny says your brother wasn't r-ready to be boned in a bathroom," I stutter – and facepalm promptly afterward. I can always humiliate myself further. _Always_. There is no end to my ability to embarrass myself.

Karen rolls her eyes, "Of course my brother would say something like that."

Ruby pats my arm sympathetically and reassures me, "He isn't. But he still totally has a boner for you. It was nice talking with you, Tweek. Maybe we'll do this again." She winks at me, before she and Karen stand up in almost perfect sync. They throw their empty drink cups into the metal trashcan beside the door.

I stare after them as Ruby and Karen amble away down the sidewalk.

Goddamnit. What did I just do?

I feel a hand on my should and look up.

"Break's over, Tweek," says Rhonda, "Back to work."

I obey.

**o.o.o.o**

I'm working on Christmas presents for my parents in ceramics class. I could buy them gifts, but they've always preferred the things that I make myself, ever since the macaroni picture days.

I don't really spend my money on anything, since my dad always makes sure that we have the things I _would_ buy – good coffee beans, a decent espresso machine, Play-Doh.

I'm saving my money, I guess, though I don't know what I'm saving for. College, maybe. Hell if I know what I want to do with my life. I've applied to universities because that's what I'm supposed to do. I've already gotten acceptance letters, and I kind of don't care. I kind of want my life to stay as it is right now. Or at least, I'd like right now if Craig and I could speak to each other out loud again.

I'm making my mom another teapot, but this one is turning out a lot more aesthetically pleasing that the lopsided elephant one. The bottom is shaped like a regular, round teapot, but I'm getting Butters to help me paint it to look like a garden. He's eager to help – very few people seem to acknowledge his artistic talent.

The top of the teapot is the part that I'm excited about. It's going to be a rose. A realistic one. Mrs. Ferruggia promised to help me if I couldn't get it to look quite right.

For my dad, I'm making salt and pepper shakers. He's had the beginnings of a collection for years. I decided to start to contribute to it, since I'm running out of ideas for teapots. I think the shakers are pretty clever – they're to-go coffee cups.

Mrs. Ferruggia says I'm clever, anyway. I'm a sucker for teachers' approval. It's nice to hear from time to time that you're more than the psychotic gay kid, but that you're the psychotic gay kid who's good at ceramics.

I leave ceramics class feeling pleased with my progress and generally content with today. I didn't take my meds this morning, so I'm a little out of sorts, kind of off-balance. But I feel good, so I'll roll with it. I hum to myself as I march down the hallway, elbowing my way through the tangles of students.

I have my hand on my lock when somebody grabs the collar of my shirt from behind. This isn't the first time that this has happened. I assume it's Cartman and reach back to swat him away, but he just grabs my wrist and forces my back up against my locker.

It's not Cartman.

It's Craig.

"Why the fuck did you tell Ruby what happened." He looks angry. Really angry.

"Ngh – um – I'm sorry! She said that – that she'd tell you I bullied her if I didn't tell what happened," I shove him away, but he's definitely got more strength in his arms than me – I take ceramics, he takes weightlifting. You know.

"You believed her," he states, blinking at me. He lets one of my arms go and rubs his hand over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose, "Look, retard, my sister could probably kick your ass. It's nothing against you, it's just true."

"She hacks your computer," I belt out, again, unable to stop myself.

"I know," he says, expression unchanging.

Now I'm confused. I'm waiting for him to say something more, but he doesn't. He just grabs the front of my t-shirt and totes me down the hall like I'm a clumsy, bipedal sack of potatoes.

Craig takes me to his car – his mom's Nissan, I mean. He opens the door, and pushes me down onto the back seat.

"Jesus Christ, we have class, Craig, ngh – we can't be out here – I need to-"

Craig crawls forward and closes the car door behind him, which is awkward, because now my long legs are crunched in strangely. He doesn't care. He smothers my protests in a kiss, swallowing muffled words.

I think that the bathroom incident might have been his first kiss. Not that he isn't delicious, because he totally is. It's just that his movement is…unpracticed. He's the guy that usually knows where to go and how to do it. But right now, he's kind of klutzy. Kind of…like me.

Craig breaks our lips apart and asks breathily, "Am I doing this right."

"Ngh – here," I murmur. I put my bandaged hands on his waist and shift him slightly where he's sitting on my lap. I nudge his legs so he's less squatting and more straddling.

Craig doesn't say thanks. He affords my assistance a serious nod and stoops over, putting small, sort of shy kisses along the edge of my jaw. His stubble is scratchy, but I like the feeling of it. The ends of his chullo hat tickle my neck every time he comes up for air, so I yank it off of his head and toss it to the front of the car.

I love Craig's hair. It's pressed down around his scalp because of his hat, but it's just as soft as it was that day in the bathroom. It's neat, not at all like mine, which won't ever stay flat – not that I try to make my hair sit like normal anymore.

Craig pants out quiet words in between pushing his lips up against mine:

"Nobody."

Kiss.

"Can."

Kiss.

"Know."

Kiss.

"About."

Kiss.

"This thing."

"Not even Token and Clyde?" I ask.

"Not even them," he says.

"Bebe and Kenny already know," I respond, unable to keep the guilty tone out of my voice.

"Then don't tell them anything else," he commands.

I smooth a hand through his hair before agreeing. "Okay," I say quietly.

Craig grabs my hand and removes it from his hair. I think that I've done something to annoy him, until he brings my nasty hand to his mouth, and kisses my palm. He asks, "What is that."

"What is – ngh – what?" I ask confusedly.

"That smell."

"Oh. Uh. Marshmallow hand sanitizer," I respond.

"I like it," Craig tells me.

I wasn't expecting that, so I just say, "Oh."

"Hang out with me today," Craig says. He's still holding my hand in his. He starts tracing his thumb against my palm. The lightness of the touch makes me shiver.

I query, "At Token's?"

"No," Craig mutters, shaking his head. He presses a last, close-mouthed kiss to the corner of my mouth, "just with me. At my house."

**o.o.o.o**

**Was not expecting this chapter here to be out in a timely manner, but apparently, I am a wizard.**

**ANYWAY. Seriously, thank you so so so so much to my wonderful reviewers: PWN3D, R.R. Miaera, MariePierre, ObanesHarvest, NightmareMyLove, TheAwesome15, KirstenTheDestroyer, hopesterocks, Rii hime, blobbab, southparklver, Scarlet Wolf, Amberr-chan, WizerdBeards, Mallory and blueeyedbaby125. Seriously y'all, every time I get a review I get this silly smile on my face. I won't lie, I go back and read reviews when I'm feeling depressed. **

**Questions/comments/suggestions? Hit me up.**

**Oh yeah and I totally didn't edit this, so sorry. :P **


	7. Two of Another, None of a Pair

**Chapter Track: Fortress – Pinback **

Craig is waiting for me at my locker. He's standing, shuffling sort of uneasily. When any of the students that are passing by look at him for too long, he flips them off and sneers.

Then he sees me, and the scowl slips off of his face like a melting popsicle off of its stick. He isn't smiling, but it's close enough that I let myself feel a little giddy.

While we walk toward his mom's Nissan, I query, "Why isn't your sister coming with us?"

He shakes his head and unlocks the car, "Cross country practice," he says.

"…Doesn't that mean that you should be there too?" I buckle myself into the passenger's seat. I realize that I've developed a sort of affection for this car, since Craig let me crash in it last month. I like the linen scented air freshener, and seeing the plaid blanket still crumpled up in the back seat makes me feel this weird type of twisty happy feeling.

"I'm ditching," he replies, rolling his eyes at what I suppose was my glaringly obvious question.

It doesn't take us long to get from the school to his house – around here, everything is next to everything else. I pass by his house every day on the bus trips to and from school, but now is the first time that I've bother scrutinizing it. Like all of the houses in South Park, it's seen an early repainting more than a couple times because of the storms we get. It's dark blue, now, with a barn-red door, on which a Christmas wreath is hanging. Above the garage, an American flag is flapping in the breeze.

I'm standing on his driveway gawkily for a few moments, just taking it in, before I realize that Craig is standing with the front door open, one brow raised.

"Sorry," I mutter, following him inside.

The interior of Craig's house could not be more different than mine – where the inside of my house is kitschy and decorated with bright colors, his is subdued and the décor subtle. The walls have been painted taupe. Above the mantle on the fireplace, a family portrait hangs. I venture a guess at it being a couple years old – in it, Craig is still wearing his braces. He looks like he's trying to smile to please his parents or the cameraman, but whatever the expression is on his face, it isn't a smile at all.

"Don't look at that," he says irritably.

I tear my gaze away from the framed photo and murmur an apology.

Craig touches my back. It makes me shiver. He guides me downstairs, leading me to believe that he lives in the basement. I can't explain why, but I do not find this at all surprising.

His basement cannot boast nearly as much grandeur as Token's, but it's comfortable and inviting. It's a little cold, but I think that that's fairly standard for basements. There are a couple of worn couches, an older television set (sort of like mine back home, except I saw that there's an enormous flatscreen upstairs), a pool table and a dartboard. They're all crammed into this small box of space.

"You should come meet Stripe II," he says.

I look up from the dart that I'd picked up off of the floor, and toss it at the board. It hits the wall next to the dartboard. I would feel bad, but there are like a million holes in the wall around the dartboard already. I reply, "Your guinea pig?" Back when we were friends in elementary school, he had one named Stripe, just plain Stripe. I remember Craig bringing out the guinea pig a couple times when we used to play street hockey outside of his house.

I realize, then, that I've never seen his bedroom. I wonder if Craig's room is to him what mine is to me: A haven. The place where, once you close the door behind you, you feel okay for minute.

"Yeah, my guinea pig," he responds quietly, though I'm getting this feeling, like an itch, that this instant is a little more than just Stripe II. If my theory holds true (they don't, usually, but this time I think I may be right), then he's sort of, like, letting me in. Even the idea of this makes me nervous and flattered all at once. My heart beats a little quicker, and I start to absently pick at the cuticles of my thumbs.

Craig swats one of my hands and says, "Stop that."

I stop.

Craig's room is nice. Really, really nice. It's the kind of bedroom that you can tell the owner put thought into. And maybe spends too much time in.

It's spacious, maybe bigger than the area outside of it with the sofas and pool table. The walls, where they peek out between expensive-looking posters, are a blue that's just barely bluer than the outside of his house. He has a video camera on a tripod in the center of the carpet, and what looks to be video equipment on his computer desk. He must be way more technologically apt than I am. His computer had dual monitors and a lot of weird shit hooked up to it.

I can't help but smile when I see the case for The Sims 3 poking out from underneath a tangle of wires. Maybe he does play old-fashioned PC games like me.

"Hold out your hands," he orders.

I swivel around. Craig isn't looking at me, he's bent over with his focus on the large cage next to his bed. He wants me to _hold_ the guinea pig? I didn't know I was going to have to hold it. What if it chews on me? Don't rodents bite all the time? Can I get rabies from a guinea pig?

"Just do it, Tweek," he says, like he can read my mind.

I stick out my hands.

Craig pulls away from the cage with a ball of tan fluff in his clutch. Stripe II does not at all resemble his predecessor. If I recall correctly, Stripe the first was sleek and actually had stripes on him. This guinea pig just looks like a poof ball.

He gently places Stripe II in my outstretched hands. I'm afraid that I'm going to drop him. Stripe II explores my hands for a few seconds – they're a lot nastier than his owner's, so I imagine they're pretty interesting.

"He likes you," Craig murmurs, I think more to himself than to me. I wonder if this is some sort of test. Like, I have to get along with the guinea pig if I'm going to get along with Craig? I'm starting to think that Craig is a lot weirder than he lets on to the general public.

"You wanna…give him a snack?" asks Craig. I think that this might be the first time that I've heard one of his questions sound like an actual question.

"Ngh – yeah," I respond. I mean, it is kind of cute. In a bitey, poof ball sort of a way. I shift Stripe II so that he's sitting in my right palm. Craig dumps a couple of yogurt chips from a zippy bag into my left.

Stripe II is _really_ cute when he eats. It is so cute, in fact, that I let out a little, "Aww," before I can contain myself. I wonder how I didn't know that guinea pigs are so awesome. I guess I've always just been afraid that they'll gnaw my fingers off, and I do enough of that myself.

I hand Stripe II back to Craig when my hands start to sweat. I should wash my hands. They smell like rodent now. Instead, I wipe my clammy palms on the sides of my too-tight jeans. This dislodges one of my Band-Aids. As I'm smoothing it back into place, Craig reaches out and touches my hair.

"Gah!" is how I express my surprise.

"Chill," he says.

"Sorry," I mumble, "I-I'm not used to people touching me. It's okay if you do, though." I'm surprised at the truth of this. Even my parents, as much as I love them, are not exempt from the do-not-touch-me rule. I hug them only on very special occasions, like their birthdays or wedding anniversary or Christmas, or if they cry. I'm convinced that the worst thing in the world to have to see is seeing your mom cry. I would rather be locked in an iron maiden or stretched out on the rack than see my mom cry. Fucking easily.

So I let Craig touch me. I flinch, at first, because he goes straight to touching my face.

"Do you ever have to shave," he asks, and we're back to statement-questions.

"Only every couple of weeks," I respond, as he traces a knuckle over my jaw.

Craig replies, "If I didn't shave for a week, I'd look like a lumberjack."

This makes me laugh, especially when I picture Craig wearing flannel and suspenders, with a full, bushy black beard protruding from his chin.

"You'd make a – ngh – sexy lumberjack," I blurt. I flush red at my own fucking big mouth, and clamp a hand over my lips. Damn it. I feel like banging my head against a wall. Why do these things just fucking fall out of my stupid-ass mouth?

Craig snorts and moves my hands away from my face. He says, "Really."

I squeeze my eyes shut and manage, "Sorry," in a pained voice.

"Don't be," he says, "You apologize too much."

"Ngh – sorry," I squeeze out. He just sort of smirks as if to say _See?_

"Let's watch a movie," Craig inclines his head toward the bedroom door.

I'm kind of sad that I have to leave his room. I like it in here. I like how his movie posters are tacked in perfect rows and columns. I like how it smells like Craig and I feel like I'm all wrapped up in that scent.

Next to the old television in the other half of the basement, on either side, there are shelves upon shelves of DVDs. Craig opens each cabinet up and extends his arm. "Your choice," he says.

Jesus fucking Christ, that's a lot of pressure. What if I choose something that he hates? I know he's like, really into movies. I don't want to pick out something that he thinks is stupid. I'm not nearly as well versed in film as he is. I know that. I like things that everybody likes, like Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and Pixar stuff. Not that I have the attention span to get through them, most of the time. Plus I have a shameful proclivity for enjoying science fiction B movies from the eighties.

"Miyazaki?" I say aloud, while thumbing through his collection, "You like Miyazaki?"

"Well-" He rubs the back of his neck, "They're not ours. Karen loaned those to Ruby like a year ago, and we, uh, never watched them. They're…cartoons." He says the word _cartoons_ as if being animated automatically makes a film bad. Clearly, he hasn't seen Up.

"You'll like them," I say with conviction, pulling Spirited Away out from in between Howl's Moving Castle and Castle in the Sky.

Craig eyes the movie with suspicion and remarks, "Are you sure."

"Ngh – yes," I say. I'm not typically so sure, but I am right now.

I hand Spirited Away to Craig, who cracks open the case and slides the disc into the DVD player. He picks up two remotes from the coffee table (which doesn't match the TV stand. This irritates me) and falls back onto the rightmost sofa. He glances over at me, where I'm wringing my hands and wondering if it's okay to sit next to him or not. He hooks his foot around my shin and pulls me back beside him with my leg. It would have been really cool-looking if I hadn't fallen face first into his chest.

When I pull back, I'm blushing again. He takes my arm and slips it around his shoulders. This makes me feel like a fucking glitter explosion. I'm jittery and I shouldn't be. I start to pick at the fingers of my free hands.

"Why are you doing that," he says.

"I'm nervous," I reply.

"Then don't be," he responds, like this is the most evident thing in the world. I wish I could just stop being shaky and paranoid and scared to something going wrong, but I can't. This _thing_ with Craig seems delicate and very, very breakable, like my mom's 100-year-old china. I mean, Jesus Christ, what if his dad showed up, like, right now? We're _cuddling_ for fuck's sake. At least I think that's what we're doing. His head has sunk so it's sitting someplace between the crook of my neck and the top of my chest, and I'm sort of leaning my cheek against his hat.

"Holy fuck, Tweek," he murmurs, "I can like, hear you thinking, dude. Chill the fuck out."

"Ngh – I'm trying," I protest.

He lifts his head up and assesses me, before sagely responding, "Do or do not; there is no try."

I stare back, and then ask slowly, "…Um, did you just quote Yoda?"

Craig says only, "Yup." He is definitely weirder than I thought.

He hits the play button on the DVD remote. While arranging ourselves, we let the menu music play over and over. It made our slightly awkward exchange a little less awkward, I think.

I come to this realization as Spirited Away starts – I like watching Craig while he watches movies. He's always so intensely focused, and I've never seen him like that in any other situation. Right now, he's running a finger over his stubble like he's deep in thought. His brows are crunched together. I can tell he wants to believe me about this being a good movie.

About halfway through, we've shifted so that my legs are sprawled across his and my feet dangle over the armrest. Craig is looking intently at the TV screen. I'm looking intently at Craig.

Until we hear footsteps pounding down the basement stairs.

I catapult as quickly away as I can from Craig. Unfortunately, speed and grace seldom go hand in hand, particularly in my case. I end up tangling my foot in the underside of his t-shirt, and I crash my forehead against the edge of the coffee table. This fucking hurts.

This fucking hurts a lot.

So I do all you can do when you've injured yourself in such a bumbling way. I yowl, "Ngh – _FUCK_!" hoarsely.

There's cackling coming from the landing of the stairs. I rotate my head (sort of. It's more like _I scrape my head_, as it makes a squealing sound when dragged across the glass inlay of the coffee table).

Ruby, naturally, is the intruder.

She's just gotten back from cross country – she's still in her fitness gear with her red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and sweat on her brow. But the sweat might be from her laughter. She's clutching her stomach and guffawing. I can't tell if she's laughing at both of us, or if she's just laughing at me.

Craig heaves a long sigh, and helps me up, pulling me to my feet by my upper arm.

"Holy shit," Ruby gasps.

Craig lifts the remote and pauses Spirited Away. He grinds out, "Fuck off," before returning his attention to me. He mutters, in the same way you mutter an apology that your mom forced you to say, "Are you alright."

I rub my forehead distractedly and respond, "I think so," but when I withdraw my hand, there's blood on the tips of my fingers, "Jesus Christ! Am I bleeding?"

"Here, let me see," Craig says. He guides my hands away from my temples and smooths back some of my blond hair. He says, "Ruby, get a Band-Aid for Tweek."

"Aye, aye, captain," she says, sarcasm in her voice, but she listens, and retreats up the stairs.

"I _am_ bleeding?" I say tentatively. Blood. Fuck blood. For some reason, it's okay when my hands bleed. Maybe it's because I make my hands bleed so much that I'm desensitized to it. Anyplace else – blood freaks me the fuck out. I hate it. My brain instantly goes from the little tiny bit of blood that's there in reality, to pool of dismembered limbs – like on CSI or some shit (this is why I can't watch crime shows).

"Only a little," Craig answers.

"Ngh – fuck! I hate blood!" My voice escapes my body at a pitch so high I didn't know I could get it there. At least, not since I hit puberty.

"Tweek, calm down," Craig says, but I don't.

Fuck blood. Blood is the worst liquid ever.

So Craig kisses me. I think – no, I know – that it's to shut me up and keep me distracted. But even with that knowledge, his kisses take all the hyperactivity out of me. He makes my heart beat quicker, yeah, but my resolve to freak out goes sailing out the window. He tastes like spearmint chewing gum. Like usual. I wonder if I'll forever associate this taste with him.

"A-_hem_," we hear.

I think that Craig is flipping off his sister, but my eyes are closed, so I can't tell. When I crack my eyes open to sneak in a glimpse, I see that she's flipping him off back, but she's smiling. Not smiling in a creepy way, but smiling in a legitimately happy way. Oddly, this creeps me out regardless.

"Tweek's peeking," Ruby announces.

Craig opens his eyes too.

This is extremely awkward. Now we're looking at each other while our lips are locked and his sister is watching, while waving a Band-Aid packet at us.

And then I remember that my head is bleeding. I exclaim, "Oh shit!" and touch the tender spot where I hit the coffee table.

Craig snaps and crooks a finger at Ruby. I think he's asking for the Band-Aid.

She plants her hands on her hips and says, "I'm not a dog, douchebag. Ask nicely."

Craig gives her a look that reads _I am not going to do that_, but when she shrugs and starts to back away, he says, "Ruby. Can I have the Band-Aid." In an almost mirror image of Craig, Ruby cocks a single brow. Craig huffs and adds, "Please."

Ruby smirks and passes the Band-Aid to Craig. He combs some of my hair to the side with his fingers, and sticks his thumb in his mouth. He uses his spit to wipe away the extra blood on my forehead. I think that I should find this gross, but it doesn't bother me. I'm kind of pleased with myself for being able to not find somebody's spit gross, but Craig falls into a weird category with me. A category in which he gets a free pass for doing the things that I don't like other people doing.

Ruby makes a strange noise.

Craig and I both look over at her. She's holding her hands over her mouth and I think that the noise she made was a muffled squeal.

Craig rolls his eyes. He rips open the Band-Aid package with his teeth and states, "What is your problem," to his sister. He smooths the Band-Aid over my head and says, "There."

"This is the cutest thing I have ever seen you do," Ruby deadpans.

Craig glares, "Why are you still here."

"But you're still a huge douche," Ruby mourns, "I was gonna make Pizza Rolls, I came down to see if you wanted any."

"No. Fuck off," says Craig.

Ruby flips him off. He returns the favor. I just want to sit back down again and watch the movie.

I think Craig can read my mind.

He pulls me back to sit on the couch. As Craig plays the movie, he mutters something under his breath. It sounds a lot like, "Fuck sisters."

**o.o.o.o**

We finish watching the movie without further interruptions from Ruby (though we can hear her upstairs with her music up loud). Craig and I have found ourselves back in a comfortable position, resting on each other. I _really_ like how he smells. He doesn't use cologne, that would be overpowering (which explains why Clyde is like, cologne's number one fan) – but I think I've figured out what it is. I think he uses some sort of pine-y soap (this makes the earlier lumberjack Craig all the more vivid in my mind), and this combined with whatever laundry soap his mom uses and his own Craig-ness makes the most wonderful smell ever. I seriously just want to bury myself in that smell forever.

"Why are you smelling my shirt," Craig inquires. He switches off the television and blinks down at me with his almost-black eyes.

"Um," I begin sheepishly, "because you smell good?"

Craig appears to find this an acceptable answer – he bends down and gives me a seconds-long kiss before standing and stretching his arms over his head. He half-glances back and comments, "You were right."

I'm not sure what he's referring to, so I respond, "I was?"

"Yeah. It was a good movie," he says.

Jesus Christ. This kind of approval usually wouldn't matter to me, considering I usually have monumentally terrible taste in film, but since it's Craig…well. Craig just seems to be the exception for every rule in my life. His support of Spirited Away makes me feel glittery, and fucking awesome. I think I might be preening. I never preen, typically on the basis that I do not have anything to be able to preen about.

"Are all of those good?" he makes a vague gesture to the case where the rest of Karen McCormick's on-loan Miyazaki collection is situated.

"Um, well, uh, I think that they are," I say, but I'm not sure what everybody else thinks. But I suppose that Craig doesn't seem to like the movies that everybody else does. That's more of a Clyde thing, maybe.

Craig tells me that he's going to watch the rest of them. I tell him that he'll probably really like Princess Mononoke, though I'm not sure what convinced me of that. He promises that he'll watch it when he gets the chance. I don't know what that means, really, but I think he's telling the truth.

Craig drives me back to my house before his parents come home. I don't think that he's ready for me to meet them yet. It's not very late, only around seven o'clock, but it's as dark as it would be if it was midnight because of the short winter days.

When we're in front of my house, he flips the brights on his mom's Nissan on, before we kiss again. He waits for me to kiss him this time.

Even if this has to be a secret, I'm so happy. I've spent my entire time in high school wondering what Craig would taste like, what it would feel like to be all wrapped up in him, how he smells and how he says things that are supposed to be romantic (I don't think he knows how, but that's okay. I seem to run my mouth off with mushy stuff enough for the both of us, despite this _thing_ being in its early stages of whatever thing it is).

I think my favorite thing, though, is finding out the little bits and pieces that other people don't know. He plays Sims 3. He knows Star Wars enough to quote Yoda. And when I asked him about the laundry detergent that his mom uses, I found out that he does his own laundry. I have no idea why, but that makes him smell even better.

I tell him this and he doesn't respond in words, he just kisses me in the clumsy way he does.

**o.o.o.o**

**Excuses/Reasons for this being a little late and shorter than usual: I'm sick.**

**NEVERTHELESS. So much thanks to my stupendous reviewers: hopesterocks, theyellowsky, MariePierre, Syrina (EEP YOU REVIEWED :O), NightmareMyLove, Alex0821, cupcakeattack, ObanesHarvest, PWN3D, blueeyedbaby125, blobbab, TheAwesome15, WizerdBeards, Qindarka, FlyAwayMax, KirstenTheDestroyer, bluepup888, BlackFruity, Mallory, R. R. Miaera, zimgr2, Amberr-chan and Lewis Frost. **

**I know not much happened in this chapter, but there will be lots of goings-on in the next couple if everything goes according to plan (it doesn't always, but I think it will).**

**Also: I probably won't have a chapter up this weekend because it's Colorado's anime convention WHAT WHAT. My brother and I are going as Zuko and Azula with my best friend and her brother going as Katara and Sokka. **

**OH, AND. If you haven't looked at my profile, I have a tumblr, and I actually blog about my chapters and stuff. So if you have a tumblr and want to keep up to date with the story, my username for everything is scarlettshazam. **


	8. Making Me Wait

**Chapter Track: Tribulations – LCD Soundsystem**

I'm not sure if I'm supposed to give a Christmas present to Craig or not, mostly because I'm not sure if we're actually "dating" in the traditional sense of the word. I understand that we have a thing, but what I don't know is if _things_ entail holiday gift-giving.

This inner debate plagues me for three straight days, until I surrender to the holiday spirit half of myself and decide that I really like giving people Christmas presents and that Craig can just suck it up and accept it. But then, my worry shifts to the gift itself – I finished making it earlier this week. It's not big or special, and I wonder if it matters that I didn't buy it. I have no idea if Craig is an "it's the thought that counts" type of guy, or "here is my list, do not stray from it" guy. Or maybe he's neither. Maybe he's the kind of person that doesn't like Christmas at all.

But I don't think that he's _that_ much of an asshole.

There weren't handmade things hanging around in his house. It wasn't at all like mine, where my plaster handprints for ages four, seven and ten are lined up on the wall in the downstairs bathroom, and every art project I've created since preschool in either framed and hung or otherwise appropriately displayed on a shelf or window sill or in an alcove.

Craig's house, at least on the ground level, looks like no kids have ever lived there at all. The carpet is pristine and completely unstained, and all the glass surfaces shine without fingerprints. There are Ansel Adams photographs mounted tastefully when a space on the wall looks too empty.

The detailed planning of Craig's house makes me understand something, though. I don't know if it's the structure or strategy or the décor or the meticulous placement of the modern-style furniture – but I get it, what Craig said about his dad having his entire life planned out. The only place in his whole house where the furniture doesn't match is in the basement – where Craig is.

I think that telling Mr. Tucker that his son is gay would be like spray painting a rainbow on the wall of their dining room. He would not take that shit well.

Today is the last day of school before winter break. I don't know if I'm going to see Craig any time within the next two weeks, so I think that I should give him his present today. It took me an hour and a half to wrap it. That sounds fucking ridiculous, I know, but I never wrap presents, at least not with actual paper and ribbons and shit. Usually, I toss them in a bag with colorful tissue paper and a hallmark card that I scrawl my signature on, and I call it a day. But I wanted to make Craig's present look nice. The very notion of giving him a sloppily wrapped Christmas gift makes me anxious enough to want to vomit. A lot.

So, instead of vomiting, I work for an hour and exactly thirty seven and a half minutes to make the nearly flawless-looking present in my hand look as nearly flawless as it does. I bought a little cardboard box from the craft store, swaddled Craig's present in tissue paper, and wrapped it all up. It was the wrapping part that took so long. My hands shook when I did it, and it was kind of dark, because it was three in the morning. But I got the snowflake and ornament patterned paper to cooperate. Sure, I wasted almost the entire roll in my frustration, but it was worth it. I was really, really –

"Oh shit!"

Clyde. Clyde bumped into me. He tripped, I think, and he's holding a breakfast burrito in his hands.

"I'm really sorry," he says, "At least I didn't get any on your shirt. Hey, who's the present for?"

I look down.

There are bits of hot sauce and synthetic meat all over the almost flawless present. At least, it was almost flawless. Now it's a wreck. The hot sauce is dripping off of the green bow that took me six tries to tie and onto my hands, and it stings when it gets under my Band-Aids.

"Shit," I say, too calmly for me to feel that I have released nearly enough of the panic inside me, panic that's building so fast that I can feel it swirl up from my intestines and surge into my throat, lodging there.

"Shit," I repeat, "Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit_! Shit, Clyde!" I want to strangle him, but I know that I can't. I want to stomp around like a fucking toddler pretending to be a dinosaur, too, but I might break Craig's present if I take that route.

"Dude, I said I was sorry," Clyde shrugs, and he comments, "He looks like he's gonna implode or some shit." And I realize that Token and Craig are standing right behind him.

Clyde may be right.

I may implode.

I may punch Clyde in the face and watch him go down like the fucking Titanic. And laugh.

"Are you gonna be okay, man?" asks Token, using the same kind of voice you use to speak to an upset child – and no matter how fair that analogy is, it still upsets me more and makes me want to scream.

Craig puts his hand on Token's shoulder and shakes his head, before pushing out from in between both of them. He says, "Clyde has wrapping paper in his locker. You can rewrap it."

"But, Craig, that's my special-" protests Clyde.

Craig shoots Clyde a firm _shut up_ look. He touches my elbow to guide me toward Clyde's locker. I don't think that he should touch me. I think that if he does touch me, at least at school, that people might know about us, about our thing. And if people find out, he'll end it. And then I won't get to kiss Craig and touch his hair and wrap myself up in his scent. My heart starts to race with all the worry.

I use my elbow to push his hand away jerkily. I'm not good at being subtle.

Clyde complains about being forced to share his reindeer paper with me, but puts his combination in anyway. He hands me the roll of reindeer wrapping paper with a begrudging expression on his face. It still has the plastic wrap on it, and I wonder why somebody would need a fresh roll of paper in their locker at school. But you can't explain Clyde, and so I won't try.

Craig asks me if I need help.

I accidentally snap at him in my irritation, glaring, "It's for you, asshole, so you can't look!"

I end up stomping off like the toddler I wanted to be able to be, without another word. I feel bad but I'm anxious. And when I'm anxious…well, it seems like I always end up closing myself in the upstairs bathroom, in the furthest stall from the door.

This is where I try to rewrap Craig's Christmas present.

I can't get it right. I've already attempted and failed three times, and I don't want to waste all of Clyde's reindeer paper. Maybe I should buy him more, since he didn't seem so keen on sharing.

I don't have tape with me, either. Why am I even trying?

I kick open the stall door with an angry, "Fuck this shit!"

Stan is at one of the urinals. He stares at the box in my left hand and the remaining half of the roll of wrapping paper in the other. I snarl, "Ngh – what the fuck are you staring at?" He glances away quickly.

Instead of going to class and facing Craig (I'm still upset that I snapped at him), I hunch over in the nurse's office and pretend I'm sick, until the nurse calls my mom and has her pick me up. They knows that I'm not actually ill – the nurse and my mom – but they'll let me come home because I'm ornery and pissed off.

When we arrive back at our house, my mom strokes my hair in an attempt to get it to lay flat and says, "Feel better, sweetheart," even though she knows I'm not really sick, and then asks, "Do you want me to make you some hot tea?"

That does actually sound good. By nature, I'm more of a coffee person. But, even though coffee does my mind good, it puts my body on the fritz. I don't know how my mom does it, but her method makes tea better than any other tea I've tasted. When I drink it, I feel relaxed from the tips of my toenails to my buzzing brain. Maybe she crushes up medication and puts it in the steeper or something. Whatever it is, it's effective – mother knows best, or something like that.

I go up to my room to try and wrap Craig's present again. At least now I'm in my safe zone, where nothing can touch me. Except perhaps underpants gnomes, but they seemed to lose interest when I made the transition from tidy-whities to boxers. Maybe they've found a new venture, anyway.

I set up my laptop before arranging my wrapping paper choices before me. I think it might help to watch something while I make _yet another_ attempt at beautifying Craig's gift. At least, watching something that I'm familiar with would help. That way, I don't get sucked into needing to know what's going to happen. I can't watch anything with too much conflict or suspense. It's stressful to me, and if I can't watch enough to see the resolution, I make myself sick with fear that the characters won't be okay. I'm still certain that Fullmetal Alchemist destroyed me when they killed Hughes – I wouldn't even get out of bed. My mom had to call in sick for me.

I choose Kaleido Star. It isn't a perfect anime, but it's lighthearted. Plus, since I've watched it a million times, I already know how it all turns out and I won't worry myself to pieces.

This is maybe why I can't handle horror (aside from the blood, because fuck blood, seriously), because suspense _actually_ kills me. I get heart palpitations and I can' breathe, and my whole system just screams at me to _panic_, but then I'm too scared to panic, and I just freeze up.

Jesus Christ, fuck horror movies.

My mind settles, though, when the familiar voices of Kaleido Star sound.

I decide on snowman wrapping paper this time.

My mom brings up a tea tray – a significantly less fancy one than she would have liked, I suspect, but she knows that I hate the china because I'm afraid that I'll break it. Instead, she's brought me my plastic tea set. I like it because it changes color with the temperature. When you pour something hot in the cups, they turn dark pink. I've had it since I was four, but I've always loved it so dearly that I take excellent care of it. There is hell to pay if my tea set goes through the dishwasher.

She places the tray on the carpet beside me and asks, "Do you need help wrapping that present?"

"No," I say, even though I do need help. My mother's brows soar toward the line of her perfectly coiffed hair, so I explain, "Ngh – um, it's a special present. I want to wrap it myself." I say this like I'm five.

But I also feigned illness like a five year old today. And I'm being served tea in plastic tea cups. Fuck it, I'll probably never totally be an adult.

"Oh?" she says curiously.

"I'm not supposed to talk about him," I respond, blushing as I do. I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh. Big mouth.

"Is it your friend Kenny?" she quizzes.

I make a face and cry, "Ngh – what? No! The guy I'm not supposed to talk about is in the closet and that's why I have to keep it a secret." I fold my arms with finality, but I'm embarrassed that my mom managed to even get this information out of me. I wonder if I've given too much away.

My mom gets a kind of smile on her face that I haven't ever seen before. It's almost…mischievous. Her eyes are all sparkly as he says cheerily, "Okay, sweetie. Let me know if you change your mind." She strokes my hair into place before leaving, but it just springs back into its usual cowlick state as my bedroom door closes behind her.

She's gonna tell my dad that I'm giving a present to a boy.

She won't do it on purpose.

It'll just slip.

And then they'll get all smiley and hopeful at the dinner table because my stupid brain probably won't stop a confession before it climbs out of my mouth like an escaped convict.

Fuck.

I cure my pouting by pouring the hot tea from the pot into one of my cups, watching the plastic change from white to pinky-magenta before taking a sip. It tastes wonderful, as expected. I feel better already.

I make sure that my hands are all bandaged up so that I don't get blood on Craig's present before setting to work.

The only problem is that, as soon as I finish it, complete with yellow bow, I worry if something is missing.

What if he hates it?

I pull at my hair and pace as I consider the outcome. Goddamnit.

"Mom!" I call, slogging out of my bedroom.

"Mmm?" She glances up from where she's sitting at the kitchen table. She's eating strawberries from a fancy bowl and thumbing through _Good Housekeeping_.

"I need the – ngh – car," I say.

Her eyes get that sparkly look in them again. She doesn't look away from her magazine. Instead, she makes a _go on_ gesture with her hand, toward the pegs beside the front door, where the car keys are hanging. I'm sort of surprised – my parents haven't let me drive since I got three speeding tickets within two months of having my license. But now, she's humming to herself and swinging her feet underneath the kitchen table.

Now I know for certain that this is because she knows about the _thing_. She doesn't know it's with Craig, but she knows that the thing exists, and it makes her happy.

I guess I'm glad that she's happy, but I really hope that Craig doesn't find out.

And I hope that she doesn't tell my dad.

But I know that she will.

I drive to Conifer – it's a bit of a long drive, but everything is "a bit of a long drive" when you live in the middle of nowhere. There's a video store in Conifer, though, and I can get Craig movies. I don't exactly trust my taste, but he seemed to like Spirited Away – so I buy Princess Mononoke. It didn't look like that was a part of Karen's on-loan Miyazaki collection and I'm fairly sure that he would like it.

I come back home around one thirty. My mom isn't around – I think that she might be in her room, taking a nap, probably.

I resume the episode of Kaleido Star that I left paused on my laptop, and wrap the DVD. I let it look a little sloppier than his other present because it's not something that I made.

Then I wonder how I'm supposed to get his gifts to him.

Until the doorbell rings. I wait for a few moments to see if my mom will get it, but she's a heavy sleeper, particularly when she takes naps.

I pad down the stairs in nothing but my socks and flannel pajama pants. I consider putting on a t-shirt, but it's probably just Jehovah's Witnesses at the door or something, and I will totally admit to enjoying answering the door in varying states of undress simply to shock them.

It isn't Jehovah's Witnesses.

It isn't Mormons, either. They come around sometimes, too.

It's Craig and Clyde.

I'm about to ask where Token is when they invite themselves in. Craig seizes my hand and yanks me forward, placing an awkward kiss on my cheek. I wonder if this is some sort of test, because Clyde's here, too. This doesn't make any fucking sense to me. I shake myself out of Craig's grip and squeak, "What are you doing? He's not supposed to know!" I point an accusing finger at Clyde, who's picking up one of my mom's teacups from its place on a lower shelf. I bark, "Ngh – do not fucking touch those!"

"Clyde figured it out because he's a nosy twat," Craig explains, eyeing the other boy as Clyde places the teacup back in its proper place.

"I'm intuitive, bro," Clyde replies sagely.

Craig mutters, "Same thing."

Clyde slips his arm around Craig shoulders and tugs him into a hug, saying, "Craig here was worried when he heard that you went home sick, so we came to check on ya. But you don't look very sick to me, Tweek, my boy." Clyde moves forward like he's going to pull me in with his other arm, so I take a step back. God help me if Clyde touches me one more fucking time.

Clyde yaps on, "And since you live in the dark ages and don't have a Facebook, Token also wanted us to tell you that you're invited to his New Year's party." Craig finally breaks free from Clyde's death-grip hug. He looks like he wants to shove Clyde into the wall, but is refraining for my sake.

"Ngh – no way," I decline.

"'No way' what?" prods Clyde.

"I don't like parties," I say. I shiver just thinking about it, "I hate crowds and loud music. It freaks me out. No way."

"Tweeeek," Clyde whines, though I'm not sure why _he_ would want me to go, since we're _not_ friends.

Besides, Token's New Year's party is infamous. Every year, his parents leave two days after Christmas to stay in New York for their own New Year's Eve celebration – and Token throws his here. It gets bigger every year. The bass is so loud that it literally makes the town quake. I used to call the police and make noise complaints, until I realized that everybody else in town was drunk and none of them care. The concept of me contributing to that noise scares the fuck out of me.

"You're going to sit here alone on New Year's," states Craig.

To which I respond, "That's what I always do."

"Come to the party this year," urges Craig. He says it like I've been invited to Token's party before, which I know I haven't.

"But why?" I ask, because no matter what angle you spin a party at me, it still sounds like a ticking time bomb of stress and social ineptitude.

"Craig hates going," clarifies Clyde, "he just gets drunk by himself and watches the ball drop on the TV in Token's room."

Craig scowls.

"Then why go?" I ask. I fold my arms over my bare chest. It's kind of cold now that I'm not snuggled into a blanket on my bedroom floor, watching anime and drinking tea out of color-changing cups.

Craig shrugs his shoulders and says, "Cause Token's my friend, I guess," he slides his eyes over to me and remarks, "You're cold."

I want to say something cheesy and mushy, like _why don't you warm me up?_ But that seems somehow inappropriate, especially with Clyde watching us. So instead, I just shrug like Craig and say, "Eh," like the articulate gentleman that I am.

My mom walks down the stairs just then. She comments, "Oh. I didn't realize that we had company. Are your friends staying over for dinner, sweetheart?"

"Dinner?" Clyde perks up.

"We would love that, Mrs. Tweak," says Craig, his voice tuned with politeness. I whirl around to stare at him, giving him the best _what the fuck_ look that I can muster, and Craig flips me off subtly so that my mom doesn't catch him.

Jesus Christ. They're all in cahoots with each other. They are all conspiring against me. All of them.

I sigh dramatically. Now I have to put a shirt on.

So, while my mom starts dinner, I turn on the television and order Craig and Clyde to stay put in front of it. Upstairs, I swap out my flannel jammies for a pair of comfy jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. I pull a hoodie over this ensemble and stick Craig's Christmas presents in the front pocket. I'll have to give them to him covertly. I know my mom is onto to me but hopefully I can throw her off the scent. Maybe she'll think that Clyde is the one that I have a thing for.

Gross.

Clyde is way too normal and well-adjusted to be attractive to me. Part of the appeal of Craig through the years has been imagining that underneath the I-don't-give-a-fuck exterior, Craig is a headcase that listens to folk music and keeps a video diary. Discovering the truth of my suspicions has merely made him even more attractive.

When I return, the air already smells like food. The TV is playing a low-rent infomercial, and neither Clyde nor Craig are paying attention. Clyde's eyes are glued to the archway into the kitchen, and Craig is looking at me. His eyes flick down to the angular bulge of Christmas presents contained in my hoodie pocket. I wonder how I'm supposed to get him alone.

I slouch onto the vacant couch cushion beside Craig, wishing that I had an invisibility cloak so that I could kiss him.

He, on the other hand, doesn't look nearly as randy as I'm beginning to feel. Craig's lips are in a flat, unamused line, and he whispers, "Why did you shove me away."

"Huh?" I manage.

"In the hallway. At school," he says under his breath, "You pushed me away."

That? When he touched my elbow? He's upset about that, but not that I shouted at him when he offered to help rewrap the present?

"Because _you_ said that nobody's supposed to know about us, asshole," I snip, "But if you're ready to come out of the closet, by all means." I spread my hands out sarcastically.

"You're a dick," he responds.

"It's a good thing you like dick, then, isn't it?" I retort. The temptation to stick my tongue out at him rises.

Before Craig can spout out his own witticism – and I am sure he had an excellent one of the tip of his tongue – my dad comes through the front door. He's covered in snowflakes, even just from walking the short distance from the driveway to the door. This reminds me of our promise to Mom last spring that we'd clean out the old furniture crowding the garage so we could fit both cars inside it.

This obviously never happened.

"Richard, is that you?" My mom emerges from the kitchen as my dad hangs his wool trench coat on the hooks above the shoe rack. "How was work?" she asks.

"Slow," my dad answers, "The drive back was even slower. It's really coming down out there. Are you going to be okay to drive, boys?" He turns his head to Craig and Clyde. I guess that their car must be sitting outside of our house or something.

"Of course, Mr. Tweak," Craig says, using his weird-ass polite voice.

Clyde adds, "Don't worry, Craig drives even slower than his grandma."

Craig doesn't even attempt to camouflage the middle finger he flashes at Clyde.

"Maybe you can teach Tweek to slow down," my dad remarks thoughtfully.

"Ngh – Dad," I protest.

"I used to be a Speedy McGee, too, back when we were young. Wasn't I, dear?"

"He was," my mom nods.

This story is going to go nowhere. I know it's going nowhere.

"What made you stop speeding, sir?" asks Clyde, in an apparent attempt at small talk.

My dad looks pensive for a moment before replying, "I'm not sure. I suppose I must have just slowed down."

I pinch the bridge of my nose as he says this, and tug at my hair when he's done. And my parents wonder how I was born such a space case.

Dinner is something simple, one of my mom's standard recipes – meatloaf with mashed potatoes and brown sugar carrots. Dessert will be cake – I saw a Pepperidge Farm coconut cake in the fridge this morning. Mom buys our desserts on the days that she wants to nap.

"Anything to drink, boys?" my mom asks.

I already have a tall mug of coffee steaming pleasantly beside my plate. Craig says that he's fine with water, and Clyde asks for some of the iced tea that my mom is having.

There is thankfully very little conversation between the five of us. I know Craig and I are more inclined to be quiet at the dinner table (even if I do have the occasional outburst), and Clyde the conversationalist is too focused on his second helping of meatloaf to humiliate me. My parents are tactfully silent, though I catch my mom studying the boys sitting on either side of me.

_Fuck_, I think. She's gonna figure it out. My mom's a smart lady.

It doesn't help that Craig starts to run his fingers along the back of my hand underneath the table. When I first feel him, I yelp, because I think it's a moth, and I fucking hate moths. I kick his foot as hard as I can, but it's ineffective. He keeps chewing his carrots as if nothing has happened.

Dinner ends without a single momentous event of embarrassment – thank God. I'm so relieved by the time I'm walking Craig and Clyde through the snow to a familiar Nissan that I could cry.

"Aw shit," says Clyde, just as reaches the passenger side door, "Dudes, I need to pee. Could I use your bathroom, Tweek?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, before Craig can say anything, because I know that Craig would tell Clyde to hold it, "It's the second door on your left when you go through the front door."

Clyde can't disappear fast enough.

"Get in the car," I order hurriedly, excited that the opportunity to get Craig alone presented itself without any effort on my part, and just in the nick of time.

Craig just nods. He swings around to the driver's side. I slip in beside him. It's cold in his car, really cold. At least the snow outside is fluffy snow, though, so Craig won't have to use a scraper to get the snow off of the Nissan's windshield. But for now, the snow coverage is perfect. Craig won't even have to turn on the headlights so that people can't see us inside.

I practically dive over the parking brake. I crush my lips against Craig's – well, I miss at first. I end up kissing someplace between his nose and his cheekbone. He grunts in pain when I knock our faces together, but fuck it.

His mouth tastes like coconut cake instead of spearmint, but that's okay, because behind that he still tastes like Craig.

He's getting better at kissing. Last time we kissed, he started to mimic some of the movement of my tongue, and now he's improvising some of his own. Craig clamps is hands down on my sides and drags me closer. Kissing is even more of a challenge in the front seats – it's kind of uncomfortable with the levers and gadgets and lack of space. But I don't care. I don't care at all, because all I wanted since he walked through my front door was to be right here, smushed up against him.

He bites down on my lip.

I lose it.

I moan loudly into his mouth. I don't know what it is about me and biting. But biting is just fucking…fuck. It makes me go tingly and I _know_ Craig can feel my body react. I slide my hands up underneath the layers of his ski jacket and long-sleeved thermal. He gasps and mutters, "Fuck, your hands are cold."

"Sorry," I murmur.

If this thing keeps going as it has been, he's going to learn quickly that my hands and feet are perpetual ice cubes, especially during wintertime.

This interruption makes me remember his presents.

I withdraw from our compromising position. Craig looks confused, until I reach into my hoodie pocket and extract the two snowman-wrapped gifts.

"Merry Christmas," I say, and as Craig slides back into a sitting position, I hand them to him. I wait a beat while he looks at the packages and ask, "Ngh – are you gonna, um, open them?"

"I thought you were supposed to open Christmas presents on Christmas," he says dryly.

Impatiently, I respond, "Well, fuck that. Open mine now."

He smiles at this.

Craig smiles.

It wasn't a very big smile, but the corners of his mouth lift just enough for me to identify his expression as neither sneer nor smirk, but genuine smile.

I can't help it. I kiss him.

But only for a second, because I'm nervous about the presents that I got him.

Craig goes for the DVD first. It's obvious to him that it's a movie, I'm sure. Anybody can recognize the size and shape and weight of a DVD. He opens the wrapping methodically. Instead of tearing into it, he pushes his thumbnail under the tape and unfolds the creases.

When he pulls the movie from the paper, I explain anxiously, "I know that you don't like cartoons much. But – ngh – this is more than a cartoon. I'm sure you'd like it. The characters are great, and um, Jesus Christ. You like movies, so I thought maybe you would like that. But if you don't, I still have the receipt and we can go to Conifer and pick out something that you would like instead. I mean –"

"You drove to Conifer to get this," he says.

He hates it. I knew it.

"Yes," I answer gently.

Craig nods seriously and returns, "I like it already. You didn't have to drive to Conifer just for me."

"It's not that far," I respond.

Craig gingerly wraps Princess Mononoke in the snowman paper and tucks it into the front pocket of his ski jacket.

Now I'm really, really, _really_ fucking anxious, because he's about to open the present that I made myself. It's stupid. Oh Jesus, what was I thinking? This is the dumbest idea that I've ever had.

Craig unwraps it in the same way he had the movie – slicing through the scotch tape with his thumbnail and unfolding without a single rip.

"A box," he says, "How thoughtful."

"It's in the box!" I cry out. I'm gnawing on my hands, now. It takes about two seconds flat for the metal taste of blood to flood my mouth and pain to shoot through my fingers, but the feeling grounds me.

"I know that, stupid. I was just messing with you," Craig says.

He pulls off the lid.

Nestled in a few layers of blue tissues paper – I picked blue because it's his favorite color – are two guinea pig salt shakers.

"I'm sorry!" I blurt, "I know they're stupid and I'm a creep, but I thought –"

Craig holds up a hand. He picks up the first one.

"It's Stripe," he says, turning the shaker in his hand, "You remember Stripe?"

"Uh, um, yeah," I answer, voice small, and then I add hopefully, "The other one is Stripe II."

Craig places the Stripe shaker back in its place. He gives me a long, lingering look and glances back down at the box in his lap. He doesn't look at me as he speaks, and he doesn't speak in his usual careless tone.

"Tweek," Craig begins, "This is –" he pauses, "This is, uh," another pause, "This is really, um. It's just perfect okay. It's perfect."

_Perfect_.

My present is perfect. I shift over to kiss him, but I guess he has the idea fist. Craig leans over and pushes his lips up against mine. He isn't rough and desperate like we typically are. It's a soft kiss. The only thing that would make it nicer is having my hands in his hair, so I tug his ratty hat off by one of the strings and do just that.

Craig pulls away after a second and announces, "I got you something, too. I didn't wrap it, and it's nothing like yours, but…" He reaches across my lap and pulls open the glove box. He dumps his present to me on my legs.

I hold it up. It's kind of hard to see, since the snow is covering all the windows, but it's unmistakable.

It's a bag of coffee beans.

There's a sticky note on them.

_I hope these are okay. – Craig_

"I asked Token where he gets his," explains Craig, "I ordered them from Brazil or something."

I hug him. I want to kiss him everywhere for this. They're perfect. Just fucking perfect, like he said about the guinea pig salt and pepper shakers.

It takes Craig a second to hug me back. He's stiff at first, and I guess he just never hugs people. But he does hug me, eventually. He coils his arms around me. I like how his arms feel. His hug is secure without hurting me. We sit like this for a long while, just breathing into each other's shoulders.

Until I see a hand slide down Craig's window.

I shriek.

Craig looks sharply over his shoulder. He rolls his eyes and says, "Chill out. It's just Clyde." But I think he's annoyed that we were interrupted too, because as Clyde makes faces at us through the window, Craig unlocks his door and opens it with a jerk, so that it bangs into Clyde's legs. I hear Clyde swear loudly as he falls back into the snow.

For good measure, Craig flips on the windshield wipers and sends snow flinging, mostly into Clyde's face, as he pulls himself up on the hood of his car so he can lean, and cradles one of his knees.

Craig slips back into the driver's seat and sighs.

"Um," I finally say, "Goodnight."

Craig lifts up one of my gross hands, even though it's bleeding, and squeezes it gently. He replies, "Goodnight."

**o.o.o.o**

It's hard to see the road at night, while the headlights reflect off of the snow that's falling, and the snow that's already on the ground. So, even though Craig has lived in South Park his whole life and he knows his destination isn't far, he drives cautiously – at fifteen miles per hour.

He keeps his eyes on the road as he states, "You didn't have to pee, did you."

Clyde grins and answers, "Nah. I just wanted to give you some alone time." He exaggerates a wink at Craig and nudges him with his shoulder.

Craig just snorts and remarks, "Figures."

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey guys! A thousand virtual gift baskets to my super reviewers: MariePierre, KirstenTheDestroyer, R.R. Miaera, ObanesHarvest, blobbab, TheAwesome15, Lidd, Mallory, WizerdBeards, blueeyedbaby125, Amberr-chan, bluepup888, sasukesgothgangstababy, PWN3D, and NightmareMyLove.**

**THE ANIME CONVENTION WAS AWESOME, THANK YOU FOR ASKING.**

**I have a picture of me in my Azula cosplay on my tumblr, or if you want, y'all can add me on Facebook, just search Scarlett Barnhill. **_**But tell me you came from here**_**, because otherwise I'll just think you're a creep. **

**Questions/comments/suggestions? Hit me up.**


	9. Cups in the Air

**Chapter Track: Shots – LMFAO ft. Lil Jon**

This year's winter break has been one of the more pleasant winter breaks of my time. In years past, I've always spent them alone, playing the The Sims or watching anime, or playing in the snow by myself in the backyard, so nobody would see that I had no friends to play in the snow with me. Don't get me wrong, I fucking value my alone time. There is very little that ranks more important to me than alone time.

But being alone _all_ the time sucks. So when Kenny came over a couple days after Christmas to just hang out and shoot the shit, it was nice. Or when Bebe came over and showed me the shoes that were under her tree. Or, when I was done unwrapping Christmas presents, how I came upstairs to voicemail from Craig. It was only about three seconds long – all he said was, "Merry Christmas, Tweek," but it was enough to make my entire holiday.

The only problem that has arisen is the issue of Token's party. Every time somebody talks to me, they always have to ask, "Are you gonna be at the party, Tweek?" or something like that. The only one that has yet to ask me is Kenny, and –

From beside me, my phone vibrates.

This doesn't happen often. I've only given my cellphone to a few people (Kenny, Bebe, Thomas and recently Craig). Even then, I don't text. I shake too much and usually the tips of my fingers have Band-Aids covering them, making it next to impossible for me to punch in the individual keys. I sigh, and click to my text messages screen.

_herd u liek mudkips…jk herd ur goin 2 tokens partayyy_

This text message means that every last person in South Park has asked me if I'm going to that stupid fucking party.

Okay, not everybody.

But lots of people. Like, people I hardly speak to. I ran into Wendy at the grocery store yesterday when I was running to get baker's sugar for my mom, and even _she_ asked me about it, even though she never attends, despite being invited every year. This is the first time I've been invited, and I still don't want to go.

Maybe I would be able to text more quickly if I texted like Kenny. But I can't. Some tether in my brain absolutely refuses to allow me to butcher the English language. I spell out all of my words and use appropriate punctuation. Thusly, it takes me a couple minutes to type out a reply, but I manage. It probably doesn't help my cause that I have an incredibly outdated phone. Doesn't everybody and their mother have a smart phone, now? Because I don't.

_No, I'm not. I told Clyde no. _

I set my phone further away from me, on the bedside table. I'm cuddled up in my comforter, wearing it like a superhero cape around my shoulders. I have the window open, even though it's below freezing, because I'm smoking and I'm too lazy to get dressed and actually walk outdoors. I've been trying to read, sort of. I'm a slow reader, really slow, mostly because it's hard for me to pay attention. For a long time I was convinced that reading wasn't for me, that it was for people like Wendy or Kyle or Token. But I started reading this book – and hold on to your hats and glasses for this – because Kenny recommended it. He isn't stupid by any means, don't get me wrong. It's just that pleasure holds a higher position in his life than responsibility. Not that books are a responsibility, really, but I know that Kenny has trouble reading like I do.

Anyway – it happened at lunch. I went outside to smoke, and Kenny was already sitting in our spot across the street, bundled up in his parka and this big knit scarf. He must have been sitting there for awhile, because even with his layers of clothing, he was shivering, and there was like a half an inch of ash hanging onto the end of his Marlboro. He was holding this book with both of his hands, face so close to the pages that it looked like he was wearing the thing on his face.

_The Perks of Being a Wallflower_. That's what the book is called.

Upon witnessing this momentous occasion, I felt the absolute need to read the book that made Kenny McCormick forget about the cigarette in his mouth.

And it's really good, too. It's just that my mind keeps drifting off to other places, like my brain does when I'm doing just about anything else, too.

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it and try to concentrate on the words on the page before me, taking a drag off of the end of my cigarette. I flick the ash out of the window. My buzzes a second time. I give a frustrated sigh, even though nobody can hear me, and pick it up. The first text is from Kenny, the second is from Bebe.

_dont b a fun sucker_

And

_Kenny says you might go to the party! Pleeease come! I'll make you pretty!_

I'm about to respond to Bebe's text with something snippy, like, _Am I not pretty now_, when it vibrates _again_. Fucking texting. But this one is from Craig, so I mash the buttons on my phone to see it.

_Don't make me come get you_

That sounds threatening. And I know he's doing it on purpose to drive me to compliance, which will most definitely _not_ be happening. No matter how many people are badgering me to attend a party that I have zero interest in, I won't. I won't do it. I set my phone aside instead of answering. Maybe if they all realize that they won't be getting what they want out of me, they'll give up. Isn't that what parents always say? "Ignore them and they'll get tired of it"? I've always figured that that was bullshit and so I've never tried it out, but maybe that does work.

Ten minutes later, it starts buzzing like crazy.

Kenny – _cmon dude_

Bebe – _Tweek please? Do it for me_

Craig – _I will drag you out of your house and drive you there in my trunk_

I send a mass response to the trio: _No._

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, then, when a half hour later, I see Bebe's little red car pull up at the curb in front of my house. I lean out of my bedroom window as she and Kenny get out and announce in my sternest voice, "The door is locked and I am not letting you in."

Kenny gets this evil grin on his face – or at least, that's what I imagine the look underneath his hood and bandana is. His blue eyes are sparkly in the same way as my mom's when she found out about the _thing_. He glances over his shoulder at Bebe, who's carry this weird pink box with her. Kenny says something, but it's muffled by the bandana fastened around the lower half of his face. It sounds a bit like, "Check this out," which serves only to give me a very bad feeling about whatever he plans on doing.

Kenny leaps upward and grabs the lowest hanging branch (which isn't that low. It is an old tree) on the tree in my front yard. In a single, fluid movement, he swings his entire body upward, straddling the same branch.

"Holy shit!" exclaims Bebe, "Get down from there! You'll get yourself killed, stupidass."

For some reason, this makes Kenny laugh instead of actually climbing back down to the ground. He guffaws something that sounds like, "Who the fuck cares?" And I think he's going to pull some acrobatic shit just to get a rise out of Bebe and me. He climbs up to another, more slender branch, which shakes under his weight when he straddles it like the branch before.

"Kenny, don't," she warns. We both recognize the look in his eyes when he's about to do something unforgivably stupid.

Kenny shifts his legs so that he faces me.

He falls backward.

"Jesus Christ!" I shout, launching myself forward to grab his feet.

Bebe screams.

It's an unnecessary scream.

Kenny's dangling on the tree branch, hanging upside down. The branch bobs up and down from his fall – which he purposely dramatized to get a reaction out of us. It worked, of course. Bebe tossed aside her pink box and dove forward like she was going to catch him, and now I'm halfway out of my bedroom window.

Kenny moves his black bandana from his lips and cheerfully says, "Ta-da!" which he punctuates by spreading out his arms and making jazz hands.

"Fuck," I manage, retreating quickly, because I'm halfway out of a window, and even though my feet are firmly on the ground, I'm much more likely to injure myself than ever-resilient Kenny is when he's upside down and ten feet in the air.

"I am going to kill you," Bebe breathes.

"I'm sure I'll bounce back," replies Kenny. It seems he's had his fun freaking us out, though. He pulls his body up with a heave of breath and climbs up one more branch, to the one that scrapes against my window when it's windy.

Kenny crawls to the very end and jumps, directly into my bedroom.

Oh, Jesus Christ, he's going to touch shit.

I shove him toward the door.

"What?" he protests, "What did I do?" Oh, I don't know, Kenny, crawl through my bedroom window without my permission?

I keep herding him until we're safely in the hallway, and close my bedroom door with a sigh of relief. I bit out, "Nobody is allowed in my room. _Nobody_." Except my mom. But actually saying that out loud would make my proclamation sound vastly less dramatic, so I keep it to myself.

Kenny shrugs and says, "I wouldn't have had to resort to that shit if you'd just let us in in the first place." I want to wipe that smarmy smile off of his stupid face, but before I can think of something witty to say, Kenny starts to parade through my house like he owns the place. He whistles something tuneless as he marches down the stairs.

Thank god my parents aren't here – I'd hate to have to explain this to them.

Kenny unlocks the front door, despite me sputtering protests, and swings it open before Bebe. When it closes behind him, he takes a deep bow and says, "Thank you, I'll be here all week."

Bebe sets her pink box on the coffee table, turns around, and delivers a punch to Kenny's gut. It's nothing fake or playful. Kenny gasps and stumbles backward from the impact.

"You _asshole_," Bebe says, "You scared the living shit out of me. Don't _do_ that."

"Yes ma'am," he wheezes, probably because he doesn't have enough air in his lungs to form a longer sentence.

"Ngh – what's in the box, Bebe?" I ask.

Bebe opens it, "I told you, I'm gonna make you pretty," she says. Makeup, that's what's inside. Nail polish, too, and little bottles and tubes of unidentifiable serums with unknown purposes.

"Nope," I say, without batting a lash, "I'm not going. If I do, I will have a panic attack and die. You don't want to be responsible for my death, do you?"

Bebe rolls her eyes, "Don't be such a drama queen. You'll be fine if we pregame."

"Yeah dude," Kenny contributes now that he's caught his breath again, "You're much more sociable when you're plastered."

Am I? I can't say that I recall. The problem with me and alcohol (unless it's a very small amount, like Bailey's in my coffee) is that I become a bit – okay, a lot – of a lush when I come in contact with it. I hardly remember any of when I've been drunk before, except flashes of noise or color here and there. I didn't realize that drinking turned me into a social butterfly, though. That must be awkward. I hope I haven't scared anybody while drunk, but knowing me, I probably have.

Nevertheless, I shake my head and answer, "Nope. I would rather tie myself up than go to a party."

"Kinky," remarks Kenny.

I blush and retort, "That's not even that kinky. And I am still not going."

"But…Tweek," Kenny says, putting on what I imagine he believes is a grade-A puppy dog look. I can see how it might work against somebody less adamant in their resolve as I am. He makes his blue eyes all big and gets closer to me. He seems to be searching for a reason for me to go to the New Year's Eve party, "Craig is gonna be there."

"I prefer Craig alone, thank you," I say tartly.

While Kenny and Bebe protest, I move to the kitchen to brew myself a pot of coffee. I haven't had any in like…two hours, and it feels sort of like it's been fucking days, especially with my friends here, trying to convince me to go to Token's stupid party. They don't understand my social anxiety. I spend the majority of my time wondering how gross other people think I am, because I'm pretty gross. I'm awkward, I can't sleep for more than three hours at a time, I forget to shower most days, I throw temper tantrums, and I chain smoke like I'm a fucking chimney.

Which reminds me, a cigarette sounds fucking awesome. Smoking indoors isn't typically my style, even though I've already done it once today. The smell seems to stick to everything, and I know that my parents don't exactly approve of the habit (even though my mom buys me cigarettes if I ask nicely).

Kenny follows me as I go through the motions of coffee making I decide to use the beans that Craig gave me, since they're incredible and I'm in a foul mood. I dump an appropriate amount into our grinder and set the timer, before turning back to Kenny and demanding, "What?" I take my cigarettes out of the pocket of my jeans and stick one in my mouth while I pat myself down for my lighter.

"Can I have one of those?" Kenny asks.

I sigh, but toss the package of American Spirits at him. As always, Kenny catches the pack one-handed with a weird, fluid grace. I find my lighter. It has Chinpokomon stickers on it, the metallic kind that look a little like miniature bits of stained glass when they catch light.

Kenny and I light off of the same flame. He takes a and drag and says, "I thought of another reason that you should go to the party."

"Ngh – I can probably think of ten reasons why I shouldn't for every one reason that you come up with," I challenge. I don't bother looking back at him. I just transfer my fresh grounds into our French press and set the kettle to boil on the stove. I once tried to convince my dad to buy an electric one – but he said that electric kettles don't have the same _poetry_ as a traditional kettle on a stovetop.

"You should come with me to the party because I came with you to the anime convention," he grins with my cigarette in his mouth, looking like he thinks that he's won something.

"You _wanted_ to come," I defend.

"You had to convince me," argues Kenny.

I rolls my eyes at him and take an inhale off of the end of my cigarette before responding, "Yeah? All it took was 'Come to Nan Desu Kan with me' and you were 'cool,' and so we went." The beginning tendrils of steam and curling out through the holes in the kettle's whistle, not enough to make it squeal, but enough that I know that the water is hot. I pour it into the press and set the timer on the microwave for four minutes.

Kenny says, "Just so you know, I didn't want to have to resort to this."

These ominous words cause me to veer violently on my heel. I'm afraid that he's gonna do what Craig threatened to do earlier today – force me into the trunk of a car and drive me there without my consent. Kenny and I are both skinny bastards, but I'm certain that he could take me down.

He's fishing for something on the inside of his parka. What he extracts is an unopened bottle of Bailey's. _No wonder his parka looked puffier than usual, _is my first thought, and then, _how the fuck did he manage to hang upside down without that falling out?_ Kenny sets it down on the kitchen table.

"If you go to Token's party, you can have this entire bottle to yourself," Kenny says. He must be psychic – we ran out of Bailey's two days ago, and Bailey's and coffee has been my chosen method of passing the time throughout this entire winter break.

I'm actually giving this bribe serious consideration, I realize. I am honestly thinking of attending a party. This freaks me out.

It's not that I haven't ever been to a party before – how else would have discovered that I hate them as passionately as I do? I went to one when I was fourteen, so like three years ago. The concept of a party will not have changed, I know that…but maybe I've changed since then?

But I shake this train of thought away. It all comes down to one question:

Am I willing to put my mental well-being at risk for a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream?

This is a surprisingly easy question to answer, and the answer is hell yes.

My mental health is always at risk, and for some reason, even though my mom is willing to buy me cigarettes, she won't buy me alcohol. Maybe it's because I'm not supposed to drink with my meds, but then, neither is she. I don't follow her logic. It seems that the only person's logic that I can follow is my own.

But I can't arrive at that party sober. Then I'll have to actually think about what I'm doing, and fuck thinking, for real. I've been past considering the consequences for a solid three minutes now.

"If we pregame, how are we supposed to get to Token's?" I find myself asking.

"Kyle's our designated driver," Kenny says, "I already told him to pick us up here." I find it a little presumptuous of Kenny to believe entirely that he could convince me, but he's just…good with people. Good with convincing me to do things.

"Fine," I say, "I'll go. Ngh – give me the Bailey's."

"Not yet," Kenny blocks my path to the kitchen table, "You have to promise that you're not gonna pussy out, dude. Shake me on it." He sticks out his right hand.

I wipe my hand on the side of my jeans, in case there's spit or blood or sweat on it, and shake with Kenny.

Bebe chooses this moment to peek from around the archway. My coffee timer goes off. I turn arund to press down my brew and she says, "So you're going?"

Begrudgingly, I respond, "Yes."

"Awesome!" she cheers, "So, um, Tweek, how come you never wear these?" I swivel around with a mug of the good stuff in my clutch, wondering if I should crack open that bottle of Bailey's now.

She's holding up a pair of dark wash jeans.

"Jesus Christ, where did you get those?" I demand, "Were you in my room? You know I don't like people in there! It's nothing against you, it's –"

"No, no," she holds up her free hand to stop the stream of words spouting from my mouth, "They were hanging up in the laundry room. How come I've never seen you wear them?" I see that she's taken the liberty of giving herself a tour of my house.

I open the window above the stainless steel sink, and flick my cigarette butt out to the side yard before replying, "Ngh, um, well…" How to phrase this? "They make me look…gay."

"You are gay," says Kenny.

"Fuck you, I know that. It's just –"

"That they'd make your butt look cute?" suggests Kenny. I glare at him.

"They would, though, wouldn't they? And they look long enough to not ride up, like your other jeans do. They'd actually cover your socks," Bebe says thoughtfully, "Put them on." She studies me and adds, "Please?"

"You'd better have more alcohol," I threaten, pointing at Kenny before I snatch the jeans out of Bebe's grip and stalk off to go change.

I don't know why I'm afraid to look the way that I do in those jeans. It's just that, when I tried them on for the first time, they looked so good. My legs didn't look like twigs (which they are) and they flattered my ass into having an actual shape (it's flat). I guess I worry that wearing things like that will add even more unnecessary attention to my person. There's already enough of that on me, with my occasional public temper tantrums and utter lack of grace, it's hard _not_ to notice me.

Bebe and Kenny grin when I come down the stairs in the offending denim.

"I'd hit that," says Kenny, "Oh wait –"

I hurl the nearest loose object I can find at his head, which happens to be the stereo remote. He catches it, instead of getting hit.

"Tweek," Bebe says, and I think that she may be about to say something flowery about the fit of the pants. Instead, she asks, "Would it be already if I fixed your hair?"

**o.o.o.o**

I don't feel like myself.

That's what goes through my mind as I walk into Token's house in my trussed-up New Year's getup. It might be the jeans, or maybe it's that whatever Bebe did to my hair, it's floppy now and she says that I'm not allowed to touch it. I let her do my nails again. They're teal this time.

And okay – after I'd had two shots of whiskey and a half a beer, I gave in and let her put makeup on my face. But Kenny went first, though he has a high tolerance for alcohol and seemed to be almost sober at the time. He attributes this ability to his Irish blood, but I just think that he drinks a lot.

Anyway, he's wearing sparkly eyeshadow and thick eyeliner. He looks like he belongs on Colfax, he said so himself. He was pleased about it –this was the look that he requested when he sat with Bebe and her pink makeup box.

I didn't allow Bebe as much freedom with my face as Kenny did. Even tipsy, I don't like weird shit prodding my all around the eyes. When he was done, she let me go look in the mirror. I look good right now, like insanely good.

But I still don't feel like myself.

The party is in full swing by the time that we – me, Kenny, Bebe, Kyle, Stan and Cartman – arrive. The music is pumping so loudly that bass creates a breeze, all to the sound of "Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, everybody!"

"Not a bad idea," says Kenny, as if speaking to the song. And if any of us can locate the alcohol, it's him.

Thus far, Craig is nowhere in sight. I see plenty of people I know – Token is grinding with Red in the center of the space he's cleared out to create a dance floor. Clyde is standing on one of the leather couches with a beer in his hand, inexplicably wearing nothing but boxer briefs, a bowtie, and a single sock. There are also familiar faces that I can't put to names, and people that I have never seen in my life. How does everybody know about this party? But then, I guess that we are up in the mountains – it's not exactly party central.

There are too many people, I think. All of them are drinking and dancing and I smell the skunky scent of cheap weed somewhere. Some asshole also thought that I strobe light was a good idea.

Next to me, Kyle looks almost as uncomfortable as I feel. I'd hang out with him if he had any intentions of drinking , but I know that he has to stay sober so he can cart Stan and Cartman back home later tonight. I, I am not staying sober. Not that I am exactly sober now, but it's been a solid forty-five minutes since I've imbibed any alcohol. Totally unacceptable.

If I have to be here, I'm going to get fucked up.

I follow Kenny to the kitchen. Cartman is already there, red cup in hand, digging through Token's refrigerator. A spread of expensive looking alcohol is arranged on this kitchen table. I doubt that his parents approve of this. How do they _not _find out? Or do they know and just not care? Because this is fancy shit I'm seeing.

Kenny whistles lowly at the display and glances at me, "What do you say, Tweek?"

"Ngh – please," I say.

Kenny grins and claps me on the back, "Atta boy," he says, or at least that's what I think he might have said. I can hardly heard over the music that's pounding so loudly there's a beat in my brain, and the drunken cheers of the partiers.

Kenny slams down plastic shots glasses (they were neatly arranged beside the alcohol in three little stacks. Debauchery aside, Token is one hell of a party host) and lifts a bottle of tequila. He turns and asks, "You want one, Cartman?"

"With you fags? Fuck that shit?" he expresses. I fucking hate Cartman, and I laugh when Kenny flips him off.

But seriously, I fucking hate all these people. I fucking hate the noise and the sweat and the drunken touching and fucking parties.

I wish I was drunker.

"Cheers," says Kenny. We click our plastic shot glasses together and tip back. It burns all the way down, but it's exactly what I wanted.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and demand, "More," shoving my glass toward Kenny.

He lifts his brows and says something that I can't hear, so I just nod. He pours us each a second shot of Token's classy-ass tequila.

Some minutes later…I think, I've finally lost my ability to keep track of time – I'm as drunk as I wanted to be. "Like A G6" blares out of the surround sound speaker system. I'm dancing with somebody in this mass of aromatic bodies. It smells like weed and beer, and there's an underlying scent of vomit coming from someplace. Wait, maybe I'm dancing with two people? I think I'm sandwiched between Bebe and Kenny and I have no idea what I am doing. The strobe light is giving me a headache, or maybe it's making me woozy. I can't tell the difference, I just know that I feel weird.

I don't care, though. I don't give a shit, not about the smell of a crowd of nasty, fucked-up teenagers, not about my head spinning, or my stupid-looking floppy hair. I don't care about any of that, or anything else.

From behind me, Kenny passes me something. When I look down in my hand, I see a joint. I inhale off of the end of it and pass it down to Bebe. If I knew what the fuck was going on, I might worry about where that joint had come from or whose mouths had been on it. Maybe.

The song changes.

I hear Kenny whoop from behind me, "Oh shit, this is my jam!" This is his song? It's Britney Spears' "Circus." Maybe I shouldn't be surprised, considering the stunt that he pulled in my tree earlier this afternoon. Kenny grabs my arm and yells, "C'mere!" He yanks me through the gyrating crowd and up high. I think that we're on a coffee table. Or a TV stand. But we're standing on furniture and we're above the rest of the crowd.

"Nooo…" I protest, slurring.

"Dance with me," Kenny commands. He grabs my hips and we're moving, dancing, I suppose, if this counts as dancing. I think that there are people catcalling us. Somebody wolf whistles and cheers, "_Damn_, Tweek!" I think that it might have been Clyde. I feel my face flush even though I have _no_ idea what's going on, just that Kenny and I are smashed together.

Until somebody else grabs my hand.

They jerk me off of the table, back into the crowd. I fall haphazardly onto my knees, and the same hand pulls me up, guiding me through the throngs and knots of sweaty teenagers as my world spins.

And then there are stairs. There's a kid passed out in the middle of them that I have to step over. I think that it's Jason. We're finally free enough that I can see the body that's attached to the hand clamped around my forearm.

"Craig!" I exclaim happily. I recognize him from his hat, mainly. Unlike pretty much everybody else here, he didn't change anything about his appearance. He looks the same as ever.

He's not nearly as fucked up as I am, but when I get close, I can smell beer on his breath. "Where are we going?" I ask, confused.

He doesn't answer me. Instead, he pulls me into a room. I can hear, now, though the floor rattles to the beat of the bass. The television in the corner is turned on, and there are four empty bottles of Coors beside it. It's like Clyde told me, he gets drunk alone in Token's room. I wonder why he came downstairs.

I grin dumbly at Craig, who's glowering. I pat the yellow pompom on the top of his hat, giggle as it bounces, and hiccup.

"Stop that," he says, so I just take off the entire hat.

I run both of my hands through his hair. It feels _amazing_, even better than usual, though that might be because I'm a lot drunk and a little bit high. I decide to kiss it – his hair. I press little kisses down from the top of his head to his forehead to his ear. I nip at his earlobe. He has a silver earring – how long has that been there? How come I never noticed?

Craig makes a soft noise in his throat. He steps back and says, "We can't do this here. Token doesn't have a lock."

I hope that I look as sad as I feel.

I realize that Craig is glancing around, looking for a solution, I hope. He grabs my arm again and hauls me toward the door – no wait, this isn't the door we came through, it's –

Token's closet.

I start to laugh.

"What," Craig says, "What is so funny."

I snort, "We're in a closet, Craig. Get it? We're in the closet! And when we –" I hiccup, "When we leave, we'll be coming out of the closet! Do you get it? You get it, right?" I burst into another fit of laughter.

Craig rolls his eyes and flips me off, but he does inch closer, making the gap between us virtually nonexistent. He smooths a hand over my relaxed hair and mumbles, "What did you do."

"Dunno," I whisper back, "Bebe did it. I don't feel like myself, but – ngh – maybe it looks nice."

Craig studies me and then says, "I like you no matter what you look like."

I don't know if he's just sentimental because he's drunk, but it's a very sweet thing for him to say. I hiccup again and hug him. And even though he's inebriated, he does as he always does when I hug him. He still stiffens up initially.

After a few seconds, he pries my face from his neck and kisses me. Hard.

Shit, it feels nice. He tastes like beer and but still like Craig, and he's rougher with his mouth this time. We work ourselves into a frenzy trying to press our bodies closer and closer. I let out a small, happy sigh when he moves downward and kisses my neck. I tangled my hands in his dark hair and crush him closer. He grunts and bites down on the skin of my throat.

The bite sends blood shooting straight down to my dick. The sensation surprises me, and when I throw my arms around him, Craig and I go toppling to the floor, landing with him squarely on top of me.

"Jesus Christ," I murmur.

He isn't looking at me, or, rather, he isn't looking at my face. Craig is staring at my pants. More accurately – the tent in my pants. I turn red.

"Did I do that…" he says, I think to himself.

I respond anyway, "I like biting."

"I thought so," Craig affirms. He leans forward and touches the place where he bit me. I shiver and groan. He smirks, like he's found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

I think that this would be much nicer without clothes. I articulate my desire by tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and sticking one of cold hands against the skin of his stomach. He makes a strangled sound, a kind of hybrid noise between a cry and a moan, and flips the shirt over his head.

And Jesus, shirtless Craig is even better than regular Craig. He has a faded runner's tan that makes his skin look all gold. I run my hands down his chest, feeling a dopey grin growing on my face. I think my favorite part is the little trail of hair that runs from his navel and disappears at the elastic waist of his boxers.

He orders quietly, "You too," indicating to my way-tighter-than-usual party shirt.

"Um, okay," I say, but even with my head all spinny, I'm still a little self-conscious about my gawky, too skinny, too long torso. I don't have his same runner's body, with his perfect fucking balance of fat and muscle and Craig-ness. And I'm an outie. I've always felt weird about that.

I pull my shirt off with a lot more reservation than Craig, even though he's already seen me without my shirt, once.

"Fuck, Tweek," he says.

"What?" I lift my arms up to cover myself. I don't know what he's so excited about. I guess, though he's seen me shirtless before, it wasn't in this context.

Craig says, "Let's just shut up." He moves my hands away from my chest and nudges me back to lay on the closet floor. A raw look of nervousness flits across his features and he says sternly, "Tell me if I do anything wrong."

"Okay," I murmur, "You won't."

Craig doesn't look so sure, but he ducks down to kiss me. He kisses my lips first, then my jaw, and then my neck, and then my collarbone. Then he runs his tongue down and scrapes his teeth over my nipple. I whimper. I don't like being at the mercy of people. I don't like feeling powerless.

So I flip him.

Craig raises his eyebrows but lets me do what I want. And what I want…is to make _him_ feel powerless. I want to make him squirm. Making Craig squirm makes me happy, makes me feel all glittery on the inside. I want to find his kinks. I want to find out everything weird about him. I want everybody to know that he's weird, too. I'm not the only weird kid around. I want to shout – Craig is weird too! Just watch!

And I'm going to give him hickeys everywhere because Craig is mine. Mine mine mine.

I give him one on his neck, first, like the one that he gave to me. Then I make one on his shoulder, kissing and sucking and biting and getting him to make those little noises of his. He's much quieter than I am with sex. Or foreplay, I guess, is what this is. I am always loud.

My arm brushes the front of his jeans as I kiss downward, and he wiggles uncomfortably.

Jesus Christ.

I made him blush.

I reach out and touch one of his pink cheeks. His face is so hot that it feels like he has a fever.

_I'll make you blush even more, Craig Tucker_, I think to myself. I can do that. I can get you to make noise, too.

I scoot back into a crouch and unbutton his jeans. It takes a few tries. My vision is a little weird and my hands shake like they always do, though right now they might be shaking because I'm really, _really_ horny, and not because I've had too much caffeine.

He asks, "Tweek, what are you doing."

"Gonna make you feel good," I say, "Really good." But then I look up at his dark eyes – because despite being wasted, I'm not stupid – and I add, "Ngh – but if you, ah, don't want me to, that's okay."

Craig sort of chuckles. It's an odd sound. I don't think that I've ever heard him make it before. He runs his knuckles across the back of my right hand and says, "Fuck yeah, I want you to do it."

I grip the sides of his jeans and slide them down. Not all the way, just about mid-thigh. His breathing gets heavier. My heart starts beating erratically.

I mean, fucking Christ. How long have I been fantasizing about this? Years and years and years, probably since puberty struck me, I've been thinking of Craig sitting underneath me with his face all screwed up with lust. That's what is happening _right now_.

He interrupts my triumphant reveries with a frustrated, "Do it already."

I grin.

Craig has lightsaber boxers. He notices me looking and his blush deepens. I almost say something ridiculous, like _that's nothing compared to this lightsaber_, but instead I just laugh at it by myself and hiccup.

I run my hands along his sides, hooking fingers underneath the elastic of his underwear. I shimmy the garment down to where his jeans are.

And fuck.

I want to say a thousand things, like, _you are the most perfect human being I have ever seen, Craig_ or _you're fucking gorgeous, Craig_. Naked Craig may be my favorite Craig so far. Instead of those things, though, I lean up and press a kiss to his stubble-laden jaw and say, "Christ, Craig."

He acknowledges this with a, "Mmm."

I use my hand first, something to build up to the grand finale. I touch him lightly to tease, and let my grip tighten when he starts to pant. I go slow, teasing still, because it's fun. It's fun to watch his eyes go wide when I hit a sweet spot, and make him sweat with anticipation.

I lock eyes with him. Without breaking our gaze, I kiss down his chest. I can't help the grin that comes with this. I don't think I've ever been this fucking excited for anything else, ever. Nothing in my entire life has been this exhilarating. Not Christmas, not my birthday, not even the second coming of Christ is this awesome. I am so happy that I feel like I could puke from the joy.

I plant my lips of the head of his cock. He breaks eye contact, throwing his head back against the carpet. His breath hitches.

_Mine mine mine_, I think.

I draw my tongue down. Craig latches his hands in my hair and trembles. He doesn't make noise yet, just breathes choppily. Inch by inch, I cover him with my mouth. I relax my throat. I'm good at this, I think. I will make Craig squirm.

The sound of helplessness that he makes is what lurches me fully forward. I do everything – using my tongue and my lips and my teeth – the last one very gently, of course. Up and down, out and in. I watch him as I pump my mouth over him. I watch how his eyes get all fuzzy. I watch when he hits the moment in which his brain shuts down. His little noises are louder now. He's pulling my hair and he probably doesn't know.

Craig's body rocks back and forth. I think he's trying not to hurt me by thrusting up too hard. I urge him to lean up.

"I'm – I'm –" he gasps, but he can't quite get the words out, "I'm gonna –"

He comes violently. I swallow.

I slowly lift my head, pulling my mouth off of him. It's heavy, my head. I'm not sure how much I had to drink, but I'm starting to think that it was more than a fair amount.

I scrape together what's left of my energy and crawl up to lay beside Craig. His brow is knit when he turns his head to look at me. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His cheeks are still flushed pink. He looks like a man that just got some excellent head. He also looks conflicted.

I get it – he's still coming to terms with the fact that he likes guys. That he likes crazy-ass me. From what I gather, he just assumed he was straight and didn't think actually give his sexuality a thought. And then _boom_, like one day, out of nowhere, it dawns on him. And that must suck. I wouldn't know. I want to tell him to stop worrying about it, but I don't. I hate when people tell me to stop worrying, so it's only fair. I do know that I should do _something_ to comfort him. I'm not very good at comforting people. Usually I'm too concentrated on comforting myself.

In the end, I decide to simply pull him into my skinny arms, so his head rests in the crook of my neck. Our chests press together and I love the feel. He's still breathing deeply, and every time he inhales, Craig gets a little bit closer.

Craig looks down at the hard-on concealed by my jeans. He starts, "Should I –"

I cut him off, "Ngh, don't worry about it." I don't want to think about how bad he'd feel about _giving_ a blow job if he feels this guilty about _getting_ one.

"Are you sure…I feel kinda –"

I stop him, "I'd be glad to accept if that's what you want, but I have a feeling that you're spent for the night." I hiccup again, and wonder how in the hell it is possible that I am stringing together coherent sentences.

Craig is silent for a moment.

He slowly says, "Thanks, Tweek."

"Ngh – for the head or not forcing you to return the favor?"

Craig delivers a kick to my shin and says, "You know what I mean."

I think that I do. Craig doesn't have a way with words, at least words that you use to describe emotion. I think that he's thanking me for understanding. Because, on some level, I actually _am_ beginning to understand the once-mystery of Craig Tucker.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers. You guys are the best, for real: Alex0821, PWN3D, glow vomit, MariePierre, hopesterocks, zimgr2, blobbab, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, animegafan123, R.R. Miaera, Mallory, bluepup888, sephyroth19, NightmareMyLove, WizerdBeards, theyellowsky, and ObanesHarvest.**

**Seriously, you guys have me grinning all day, every day. **


	10. Is It Real Now?

**Chapter Track: Walking on a Dream – Empire of the Sun**

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey – the chickens and ducks are up, so _why aren't you_?"

I blink the sleep out of my eyes a couple of times, rubbing the dryness away and rousing myself back to reality. My neck is kind of sore, I must have slept funny.

Wait, sleep?

I shoot up into a sitting position, which is unfortunate for Craig, because his head had been resting on near my collarbone, pushing my head into the funny position that put a kink in my neck. Now, he's laying haphazardly on the carpet. His eyes crack open and he groans, clutching his temples. A strip of light streams into Token's closet – it's poorly placed, right across Craig's face. He groans again and rolls to his other side, so he faces me and not the door.

The perpetrator is backlit against the sunlight. I shield my eyes, trying to put this asshole into focus, when they close the closet door behind them and chuckle heartily, like they've made a really funny joke.

Kenny.

What the fuck.

Craig beats me to the punch, "McCormick, what the everloving fuck? Fuck off." Craig apparently is in to much post-party head pain to sound as casual as he usually does. His voice is rough and deeper than it typically sounds, and his question actually sounds questioning. He lifts an exhausted middle finger, and uses his other arm to cover his eyes. Even the small light overhead is too much. I'm inclined to agree.

"Don't be like that," sighs Kenny I'm-impervious-to-hangovers McCormick. He coughs and says, "You uh, might want to pull up your pants, Craig."

Craig growls angrily. He picks up the object nearest to him – my discarded t-shirt, and throws it with a surprising amount of strength. It doesn't do much but hit Kenny in the legs, but Craig appears to have made his point.

Kenny holds up his palms in defense and says, "Alright, alright. Token has coffee downstairs and uh, like aspirin or some shit. But take your time, lovebirds. I'm sure nobody minds."

Craig's hands are clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles go white. He says lowly, "If you do not leave, I am going to fucking end you, Kenny. You are going to die. I seriously fucking hate you." The scary part about this exchange is that Craig sounds dead fucking serious. He's looking up at Kenny with a glare so dangerous that it would make me fucking run for my life if I was ever on the receiving end. I give Kenny a pleading look, hoping that this will have more of an effect. I'm sensing a huge case of morning-after regret in Craig. The intimate details are a bit fuzzy, but there was _definitely_ Craig's penis involved someplace in the mix.

Kenny catches my eye and seems to understand. He's not a total dick, he's just a dick to Craig. Apparently they were cool until some incident in elementary school, involving being shipped off to Peru. I get how that could piss a guy off. When I hung out with Kenny and his usual friends, they always had some stupid scheme in their heads, particularly Cartman. But anyway – after that falling out, Craig and Kenny were probably the most at odds out of the four.

Kenny says, "Whatever. I'm gonna walk home, Tweek, so don't worry about me, okay dude?"

"Kay," I say shortly, my own hangover pumping blood furiously in my brain and ears.

Jesus Christ, fuck parties.

At least I have a bottle of Bailey's waiting for me back at home.

And I did give Craig a blow job.

…I think.

Whatever the case, I didn't walk away empty-handed. And I can go home and coffee this off. I can't believe I fucking fell asleep. That never happens, ever. I guess it really only was for a few hours. I can't be sure how or when I ended up in Token's closet with Craig, but I think that it was pretty late into the night, or early into the morning, depending on how you look at it.

Heh. Closet.

I laugh quietly to myself and drag my body over to my t-shirt, slipping it back over my head. It smells like weed and cigarette smoke and judging by the stain on the front, I must have sloshed alcohol onto myself at some point.

"What are you laughing at," Craig says, apparently having gained enough of his senses back to speak in monotone.

Despite my aching head, I grin, and remark, "When we leave, we're gonna be coming out of the closet." Hahaha.

"You made that joke last night," Craig says pointedly, "and it still isn't funny."

"You just don't have a –ngh – sense of humor," I say back.

"That shirt makes you look like a douchebag," says Craig. He stands and yanks his pants back up onto his hips, buttoning the fly with stiff fingers. He coughs into the crook of his elbow and remarks, "My mouth tastes like fucking shit."

"Ngh – I know. About the shirt part, I mean," I say. I mean, it's a v-neck. If anything would prove Craig's accusations of me being a "hipster shithead" right, it would be wearing a v-neck. With a groan, I pull myself to my feet, by grabbing onto one of the low railings, where Token's shirts are hanging. Craig is sifting through the same rack. I duck down and pick up his gray long-sleeved shirt from the ground. It has a retro Coca-Cola logo on it – and he calls _me_ the hipster shithead.

"Thanks," he mutters when I hand it to him. I'm a little sad to have bare-chested Craig disappear from my life. He's a little hairy, but damn. He could like, pose on the covers of romance novels. Like the kind that my mom reads, where the hero is wearing nothing but like, a kilt and some boots.

Nice. Craig in a kilt…

A sharp pain impales me right through the fucking head. I grunt in pain and hold my face in my hands. Fuck parties, fuck parties, fuck parties…I am never going to do this again. Ever. No matter what I am offered. Fuck.

I'm suddenly aware of a chest in front of my face. Craig smells a bit like stale beer, but he also smells kind of like cologne. Did he actually make an effort last night that I just didn't notice? I would have been way too drunk to notice cologne. Plus, my own smell is pretty fucking rank. I wonder if I could sneak some of Token's deodorant or something. He always smells classy.

"Tweek," says Craig, wrenching me out of my thoughts.

I pull my hands off of my face. Somehow, the manicure that Bebe gave me has managed to remain completely intact. I am thoroughly impressed with myself, though it could just be that she used two top coats this time.

There are shadows under Craig's eyes, but he doesn't look nearly as upset as I thought he might be when we initially woke up half-naked on Token's closet floor. Maybe I mistook his hangover pain for being pissed off at me. He leans his face up, placing his cheek against mine. His stubble is even longer than it usually is. I guess he wasn't kidding when he said he'd look like a lumberjack if he didn't pay attention to his facial hair. His breath is hot and damp against my ear when he speaks, in a quiet voice, "I'm gonna take care of this, okay."

Er – what –

Oh. _Oh._

His hand is on the front of my jeans.

I'm not actually accustomed to morning wood – I'm under the impression that typically one has to actually fall asleep to wake up with a morning erection, and I don't do a lot of sleeping.

And when the fuck did Craig get so forward?

These emotions, with the combination of my hangover and Craig's hand unzipping my pants, are enough to cause a total sensory overload. I don't even know if I can form words. I at least attempt to speak, but all that comes out is a weird, needy noise.

"And you made fun of my boxers," He mutters. I glance down – right. My Chinpokomon ball patterned boxers. I can't even remember what Craig's boxers had on them, let alone if I actually made fun of them or not. Making fun of Craig doesn't sound like me, but fuck if I know what I do when I'm drunk.

"Mmm," I manage. No more thinking, Tweek. No more.

Craig is next to my ear again with his beer-tainted morning breath. I discover that I don't so much mind the smell of his morning breath when his hand is around my dick. I moan, kind of loudly, and grip his hair, which is sticking up funny from sleeping on the floor. He says to me, "Tell me what to do, okay."

I mumble, "Don't tell me you don't jerk off. It's like that, except that the dick isn't yours."

"You're an asshole," he says, but he doesn't really sound like he means it. Probably because he's way to focused on the task at hand. And I still can't believe that this is actually fucking happening. How is this happening? Craig Tucker's hand is down my pants, and Christ if it isn't the best thing to happen to me during a morning, like, ever.

Craig moves the waistband of my underwear down, breathing heavily in his concentration. I feel oddly exposed, now. My own nakedness has never bothered me before, but I feel like I should be perfect for Craig. He isn't the nicest person I've ever met, not even remotely, but he's fucking attractive. My body is much less filled out than his. I'm awkward and angular and just short of looking unhealthy.

"Shit, Tweek," he says quietly.

"What?" I nervously swallow when he runs just the tips of his fingers from base to tip of my penis. He's making me melt, like cotton candy in the fucking rain.

He sounds embarrassed when he replies, "It's just that…um, it's kind of…big."

Did I hear that right? I don't think I've ever gotten _that_ feedback from anybody that I've slept with, but then, it's typically not polite conversation to have during sex or fooling around. At least in my experience, the size of a guy's penis is something that you don't remark upon, no matter what. I guess Craig doesn't know that, that there are thoughts that you're supposed to just keep to yourself. But I'm flattered. I'm glad he doesn't know the general rules surrounding sex, I decide.

His touch is hesitant at first. I'm sure he knows that that is a delicate thing that he has his hand wrapped around. But he has me liquefied in his arms in a mere handful of seconds – my head flops forward against his shoulder. I should have warned him about how noisy I am. Even the slightest sensation makes me gasp and moan and cry out.

I think my noisiness is encouraging him. His grip gets tighter as he runs his hand up and down, massaging slightly when he gets the head.

I wrap my arms around him and bury my nose into his neck. I kiss there while his hand pumps up and down, more confidently with each stroke. I nip at his neck. I'm going to give him another hickey. Who gives a shit if it's right next to one that I evidently gave him last night?

I moan his name, "_Craig_."

This _really_ encourages him. Holy shit. This is the best hand job I've ever gotten. Maybe I'm just all worked up because it's Craig, and his hands are the best hands that I've ever allowed to touch my body. They're slightly calloused, but you can tell that he takes much better care of his hands than I do. I think that the Lubriderm that he keeps in his mom's Nissan might have been his idea. His hands are soft and not at all bony, like mine.

I come all over his hand, and unfortunately, his shirt, too.

We stand there together, panting, with our sweaty foreheads pressed together. We kiss – a short, hard kiss, before he lets go and backs off so can pull my pants back up. As I'm zipping, he asks, "Was that alright." His voice is gruff.

"Ngh – are you kidding? That was awesome!" I made my delight known. Best morning ever. _Ever. _

He sends me a pleased look. For Craig, I mean. I can mostly tell that he's pleased because of how his eyes look. They're somehow lighter than they usually appear. What he doesn't seem as pleased about his is the mess I made all over him.

I fumble for words and finally squeak out, "Uh, Token has a bathroom, right? Ngh – I can clean that up for you, um. If you want."

"Of course Token has a bathroom, you moron," he says. I flush.

Token, in fact, has his very own bathroom. I suppose that this isn't surprising – he is an only child. And I have my own bathroom at home, too. It's just that I've never seen a bathroom quite as large as the one that I'm standing in now. It's decorated in a heavily masculine style, despite the dark purple walls. His shower and bath tub are separated, and his tub looks more like a full-blown hot tub than a place to bathe. I peer into it, and sure enough, there are little jets lining the walls. Jesus Christ, I wish I had a bath tub this nice. And the shower has a little bench area inside it. Just when I think there's a limit to the luxury in this house, I'm proven wrong.

Behind me, Craig has removed a crimson-colored washcloth from a basket placed between the double sinks at the granite counter. He gets it wet and wipes off his hand, before folding it and using an unsoiled part to take care of the bottom of his shirt.

I draw my attention away from the fancy bath and search for something that will mask my party-scented person. When I open up a mirrored cabinet, I find what I'm looking for – an impressive spread of cologne options. I think that they're all designer. I'm not overly familiar with designer things, but I recognize some of the names – Dolce & Gabbana, Burberry, Gucci. I choose one in a black spray container. Gucci Guilty Intense, or something, and spritz it onto the alcohol stain down the front of my Craig-proclaimed douchebag shirt.

Now I smell like party and classy bastard.

"We should hang out today," Craig suggests.

"Aren't we too hungover?"

"Are you?" he asks.

No, I guess not. I don't think I could ever be too hungover to spend time with Craig. Especially if what we're doing is as fun as what happened in Token's closet. I clear my throat and answer, "Ngh, um, no. But coffee first."

"Like I'd fucking leave here without coffee," he says.

Before we go downstairs, Craig reminds me that I'm not to speak of the events that have transpired. I remind _him_ that I'm not fucking stupid, but also that anybody that's still here probably already knows about us anyway. He says that he doesn't give a shit. Anybody that's knows now has already proven that they won't open their traps, as well they shouldn't.

I think most people will have cleared out of Token's house by now, to nurse their hangovers in solitude. Normally this is what I would have done, too. Craig makes things different. He makes me feel like doing something other than locking myself in my room with my laptop. What makes me happier is that I know I'm doing it, too. Making things different for Craig, I mean. Instead of sitting in his basement and watching indie movies or jogging around in the dark, he's with me.

The few party stragglers that remain are Token, Clyde and Red. She and Token are giving each other _the eyes_. You know, goo-goo eyes, or something like that. And they're holding hands. I wish I could do that in public with Craig. I understand why we can't, but that doesn't stop me from wishing that we could. The fact the he can even tolerate my gross hands is miracle. I mean, if somebody had hands as disgusting as mine, I sure as fuck wouldn't want to hold hands with them. I guess that's why I get all giddy when he decides that it's okay to slip his fingers into mine.

"Morning," Clyde says to us, raising his mug to eye level, like a toast. His tone of voice holds a hint of suggestion that causes Craig to flip him off.

Red glances between Craig and me with her perfectly arched brows furrowed. When the expected look of realization dawns on her face, and she turns to Token to ask about it, he says softly, glancing at Craig (who is filling two mugs at the most beautiful espresso machine known to man), "Don't ask." She nods.

"I'm glad you decided to come, Tweek," Token says amicably.

I grumble, "I'm not. Not right now."

Token is good-humored though. He chuckles as Craig hands me my coffee. It's kind of nice that he got me my coffee.

"But dude!" exclaims Clyde, "Who knew that you could dance? That thing you did with Kenny man – I mean, I only remember, like, part of it, but it looked really cool! I tried to get Craig to dance once, you know. He dances like an old white dude."

"I am a white dude," Craig says, giving Clyde the finger.

I think Craig has an old soul. I never quite understood what people meant when they would say that so-and-so has an old soul, until I thought about Craig.

Sometimes I think that Craig is a crotchety old man trapped inside a teenage boy's body.

"So am I, but I can dance," argues Clyde.

Token interjects, "Uh, no you can't. Sorry bro."

Craig snorts.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig and I decide to split for a couple hours and regroup at his house after we've showered and made ourselves decent. When we left Token's, we realized that the spot on his shirt dried kind of awkwardly. That wasn't the only immediate problem. I still reeked like I'd been swimming in a pit of disgusting teenagers and a sea of alcohol, which essentially, is exactly what happened. Thus, we take the time to pretty ourselves up. Okay, more accurately, we were getting ourselves back to normal.

This is why, at almost two in the afternoon, I am standing on Craig's doorstep. My hair is still damp, which, with the biting January breeze, makes me cold. At least I had the presence of mind past my hangover to slip on my winter coat. Kenny makes fun of it sometimes. It's a pea coat that my mom bought me, and it's all wooly and soft and expensive looking.

Ruby gets to the door before Craig. Karen McCormick is with her. Both girls are wearing pajamas still, and they don't look hungover at all. I didn't realize that it was possible that there were fourteen-year-olds in South Park that didn't want to get plastered on New Year's Eve. Even though I tend to spend my New Year's alone, I _did_ snag a little something for myself out of my parents' liquor cabinet.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Ruby asks smugly. I wonder if she got the chance to see the state that Craig was in before he cleaned himself up.

Even if she missed the stain on his shirt, you couldn't wipe the smugness off of his face. After he'd made me come, that smugness was firmly planted on his face, and didn't show signs of leaving. And as full of himself as Craig projects himself to be, I don't think he's terribly arrogant in reality. "Smug bastard" is a term I would typically apply to Kenny, but it certainly applied to Craig this morning.

"Leave him alone, Ruby," Craig appears. He looks good. But I always think he looks good, so maybe my opinion shouldn't count. His hair is damp like mine (which I suppose is the reason that he has forgone his hat), and instead of dressing in actual clothing, he's opted for a ratty-looking t-shirt that says "Take One Film Camp, Summer '03" (in comic sans. How can he wear that with dignity?) and a pair of pajama pants printed with the Red Racer logo.

Ruby backs off with Karen, but glances over her shoulder at me, knowingly, in an extremely creepy way.

"She scares me," I say to Craig, as soon as she and Karen are out of sight.

He mutters, "Me too."

I rock back and forth on my feet and ask, "So, what do you wanna do?" Please don't say movies. I'm too hungover for movies.

Craig looks down and bites his bottom lip. He shuffles his feet for a second and then says, "I want to film you."

My thoughts go instantly to sex.

"_What_?" I manage to squeak out. I mean, not that I would actually mind. But he's definitely a virgin and it seems more than forward to ask to film us doing the nasty. It's downright audacious. What the fuck is he –

"Not like that, you perverted asshole," he snaps. I grin at this. Not because of his words, but because he's blushing again, and I love making him flustered. He grinds out, "I wanted to like…film you making coffee, or something. Something that you like to do."

"Ngh – why?" I ask, because that sounds kind of boring to me. But coffee and Craig are involved, so I guess it can't be entirely awful.

Craig shrugs.

"Okay, I guess," I say.

He leads me to his kitchen. It's a pretty nice kitchen, though it does scream all-American nuclear family to me. The Tuckers seem like the kind of family that I think my mom wishes we were sometimes. You know, normal. Craig shows me were all his coffee paraphernalia is and disappears.

When he returns, I'm holding a red plastic canister in my hand. I cast him a _really_ look and say, "Fucking Folgers? I thought you had taste."

I look up. I recognize his video camera from where it sat in the center of his room. Craig already has it opened up and the light on the side is blinking green. He's already filming. I turn red.

"Just make it, dickhead," he says.

I don't even bother saying anything to this, I just listen. His coffee machine is at least seven years old, and kind of sketchy looking. I don't know how I would function if my family worked the way his does – spend money on expensive leather furniture, sacrifice coffee maker. I cannot, I legitimately cannot follow that logic. It baffles me.

"What's your favorite movie?" I find myself asking him, as I put the _pre-ground_ (What even _is _this shit, seriously?) coffee into a filter, and then into his coffee maker.

Craig goes silent for a minute, the thinking kind of silent. Eventually, he answers petulantly "I have a lot of favorite movies," in the same kind of voice one would use if you asked them to apologize for something that they didn't feel sorry about.

"Then choose one," I say. I pull out one of the chairs at his kitchen table and lounge, slouching into the comfy cushion that the Tuckers sacrificed good coffee for.

Craig looks really irritated that I've told him to choose a single movie that he likes. But after more silent consideration, he tells me, "I guess. I dunno. I really liked Moulin Rouge."

I stare.

"Moulin Rouge?" I repeat.

"Did I stutter," he says dully.

"Ngh – it's just an interesting choice, is all," I respond, "I was like, expecting Saving Private Ryan or I dunno, something that I've never even heard of."

"Saving Private Ryan is good too," he agrees. He pauses, and adds, "And I liked Princess Mononoke."

Craig sits down in the chair opposite mine, still holding his camcorder so that it captures my face. He moves it, though, when the shitty coffee maker beeps shrilly and I rise to pour us god-awful Folgers. The Tuckers' taste in mugs is not nearly as refined as their taste in furniture. It looks to me that all of the mugs are souvenir mugs from roadside gift shops, or presents that your grandmother gets you. Like, the Tuckers own an inordinate amount of extremely unattractive Christmas mugs. But, for some reason, I find this endearing, and so I choose the two ugliest Christmas mugs of the bunch. The first is bordered with Christmas lights and has reindeer on it, hitched together by the same Christmas lights. The second has dancing teddy bears in elf costumes, all of which have the eyes of murderers.

Which is why I give the murderer-elf-bear mug to Craig instead of drinking out of it myself.

"I watched all of those movies," Craig tells me, when I take my seat again, "the Miyazaki ones. I liked them."

I smile toothily at him. He doesn't have the camera focused on my face any more, I realize. He has it focused on my hands. My smile drops down into a frown and I demand, "What are you doing? My hands are gross!" I slap the camera away.

He scowls and says, "Hey, watch the fucking camera, dickbag." He messes with it for a moment and then turns it toward my hands again. He's still irritated about me hitting his camcorder, I can tell, but when he speaks, he doesn't sound annoyed at all. He says, "Your hands aren't gross. They're beautiful."

"I – um, what?" I look down at the offending appendages. My hands are most decidedly _not_ beautiful. Even with Bebe's teal nail polish coating my short, square, nails, my hands are this disgusting purple-red color, and covered in scabs and Band-Aids. Most of one of the scabs on the back of my hand is missing because I was picking at it during the walk over here, and it's trickling a little bit of blood. My hands are shaking, now, too. It's like my hands know that there's a camera turned on them, and they're scared.

Craig doesn't answer me. He asks instead, "Why do you like me."

Why _don't_ I like Craig is the better question.

"I'm boring," he says.

"Ngh – no, you're not," I respond.

He stares at me with his unsettlingly dark eyes, like he's waiting for me to justify what I've just said.

So, naturally, I do. I tick off the things I think are great about Craig, "You're totally weird. You like good movies, and you watch them with me even if I can't sit still. You act like a total douchebag, but I know you're not a douchebag because you love your guinea pigs. You like weird music, but even if it's weird, it's good. You have soft hair. You know when coffee is total shit. You're just as much of a creeper as I am, I know so, because you jog past my work and my house at night. And –"

"I get it, I get it," he says. I think maybe he's irritated that I called him weird and a douchebag and creeper, but I like those things about him. I feel like nice people always want something from you.

"You didn't let me finish!" I exclaim, "I was gonna say that – that you look really good when you're naked."

Okay, that wasn't what I meant to say. I meant to say something more like, _I find you extremely attractive_. _I like your creepy eyes even though they scare me when you're mad. I like your chest and your hair and your perfect hands. _

But it still holds true.

Craig rubs his forehead and mutters, "Fuck."

"S-sorry," I stammer.

But then Craig says, "You look good naked, too."

**o.o.o.o**

**OKAY. SO. I wrote this chapter pretty quickly, because I decided to type it on my computer instead of handwriting and then typing it up, so if you guys have any suggestions for what would make this chapter better, I am all ears. **

**Anyway, thank you to those beautiful human beings that I call my ****lovers -er, I mean -**** reviewers: NightmareMyLove, ObanesHarvest, Reverse Psychology, zimgr2, Mallory, animegafan123, MariePierre, PWN3D, blobblab, KirstenTheDestroyer, and TheAwesome15.**

**And guys. I am going to shamelessly advertise some beautiful Creek here, okay? Okay. My dear friend glow vomit has this super amazing Creek fic called The Hedgehog's Dilemma. And it's awesome. Okay. It's awesome. So everybody go read it right now. Now. NOW. **


	11. Love Until Your Hands Bleed

**Chapter Track: Junkyard – Page France**

Winter break comes to a pleasant but too-soon close, and before we know it, we're being herded back into South Park High School, flitting from class to class by the command of the bell. Craig and I seem to have developed some sense of normalcy between us (normal for us, I mean) within our day-to-day lives. Since cross country season has ended and swimming hasn't started yet, Craig has more time to spend with me. We therefore spend as much time as we can stomach hanging out together. Some weeks, it's more time than others – we're both so incurably anti-social and introverted and generally pissed off that being with each other for too long lands us in pissy arguments over incredibly stupid things. Like, who had the remote last, or why one of us is looking at the other funny.

This past week has proven to be one of those weeks. On Thursday, we got into some stupid disagreement about a movie. I don't even remember what it was about, I just know that I said something that rubbed him the wrong way. And I guess Craig doesn't forget arguments involving movies, because we haven't spoken since, except for a couple of texts.

This particular feud is pretty unfortunately times – Valentine's Day is on Tuesday. We're still not technically "dating," I suppose, at least in the traditional sense. We don't hold hands when we walk down the hallways together (I wish we did), and we don't go out to spaghetti dinners when we're feeling romantic (we mostly sit in Craig's bed and fool around, unless his parents are home. He seriously does not want to risk them finding out that he likes guys), or whatever normal couples do.

I can't help but be a little excited for Valentine's Day. I've never had anybody to give anything to, and nobody has ever given anything to me – except last year, technically. Bebe gave me a Hello Kitty valentine, the kind that you get at the grocery store. She gave them to just about everybody, but the one she gave to me was one of the bigger valentines that you're supposed to give to teachers. So I did feel a _little_ special.

Mostly, though, Valentine's Day has always left a sour taste in my mouth. I hate seeing the heart-shaped balloons and the bright-eyed teddy bears. More than that, I hate when dressed-up couples come to Harbucks to get a romantic cup of coffee together, or whatever the fuck they think that they're doing. They always sit across from each other and give each other _the eyes_ and speak about soft, cutesy things.

It makes me want to fucking vomit.

But this year feels different. I know that Craig and I won't be making eyes at each other and we _definitely_ won't be participating in any sappy conversation. Craig has very vocally expressed his distaste for sweet words – "Makes me sick to my stomach" or "They just sound so fake," he says. When I point out that his favorite movie is Moulin Rouge, he says that movies are different. Movies are a made up world, Craig tells me. It's okay for them to be dramatic and romantic and explosive, because they're just dreams. People should stop trying to force their lives to be like impossible dreams, he says.

I think that this is maybe a little bit cynical, but it sort of makes sense. It's like how seeing Token and Rec making out is utterly disgusting to me, despite that they're attractive people and they're well-suited to each other. But I can watch an equally as attractive couple as Token and Red on a television screen, and I'm not grossed out at all. Instead, I'm moved.

It shouldn't make sense to me, but it does.

I don't want to get Craig anything _too_ sappy for Valentine's Day, just something enough to express that I think he's fucking fantastic, even if he can sometimes be a total prick. Maybe I should write that in the card that I'm going to give him. _You're a complete douchebag a lot of the time, but that's part of what makes you the guy I like_. That's not too sappy at all, and it's just fucking true.

But that would probably piss him off.

Oh well.

It's what I write anyway.

I made his card myself to make up for not making his actual present. It's kind of stupid, as my presents tend to be – a gift card to Best Buy. There isn't actually a Best Buy anywhere fucking near here. I made my mom drive me (my parents are back to not letting me drive again, I think because they finally got the notice about how much my speeding tickets raised the cost of our insurance) the two hours it takes to get to Littleton to go to the Best Buy there.

I realize while we're in Littleton that I glad the town we live in is so small. Everybody may know each other in South Park, but at least I go to a high school that houses a mere couple hundred students, instead of a couple thousand. I get overwhelmed where I already am. The simply idea of a high school as large as the ones we see stirs up panic in my gut.

So Valentine's Day comes around at last.

I have the things for Craig tucked safely into the confines of my messenger bag. I wonder if he got anything for me, and decide that I wouldn't mind if he hadn't, because I know that he doesn't like Valentine's Day. I kind of tuned him out when he was going on about it a couple weeks ago – something about corporate reed and the gullibility of the masses and blah, blah, blah. Whatever it was, he'd started to sound like the goth kids.

I try to think of a time during school that I can get Craig alone and give the presents to him. During the school day, associating with each other is strictly off-limits, outside of sitting together at lunch or walking to our classes side by side. He says that being with me at school makes him paranoid, but I don't think he knows the meaning of the word.

When people even _glance_ our way, I start to panic. Once, in the cafeteria, I caught Stan looking at us. I internally _freaked the fuck out_, because I know he knows about us, and I don't know much about Stan. I don't know if he's a nice guy or not. I think he is – I mean, he hasn't told anybody about seeing Craig and me yet except for Wendy, and he's friends with Kyle. I know that Kyle is nice.

I didn't want Craig to see that Stan was staring, either. Craig hates Stan almost as much as he hates Kenny. Plus, Craig has repeated more than a few times to me his fear of Stan letting slip what he saw in the bathroom a few months ago. To like, Cartman, or somebody else that's a bigoted asshole. So I turned my meanest glare on, despite dread, and Stan looked away.

I sit down in my English class just as the bell rings. Everybody is already present and seated except for Craig and Clyde – and Clyde darts in about thirty seconds after the bell has gone silent.

Craig is sometimes pretty late. Occasionally, he goes out to smoke right before class, and comes in about fifteen minutes past the bell with his headphones in. But if that's the case, I wonder why he didn't ask me to go with him. He told me that he's tired of me going out to smoke with Kenny, because Kenny is, I quote, "a dick."

Since Token's New Year's Eve party, Craig has been especially touchy about me spending time with Kenny. I think (and I can't help but smirk a little as I do. Okay. I smirk a lot) that if Craig was to be honest with himself, he would admit that he's the teeniest bit jealous. He has no reason to be, of course. Kenny and I have always just been friends, except for that one time. And that one time, I called him Craig by mistake. But…I have to say, I kind of like envious Craig. Perhaps that's vindictive of me, but it amuses me that Craig has gotten so territorial.

And admittedly, I'd probably act similarly if a guy whose sexuality has come into question on many occasions decided to hang around Craig.

Still.

Fifteen minutes into English class, I start to worry. Why isn't he here?

What if his dad found out that he's gay?

What if Craig is dead someplace in a ditch?

Jesus Christ.

I start to pick at the skin around my Band-Aids. My eyes dart around the room and I get this anxious feeling the builds up and up until it explodes like thunder in my stomach. I realize that I'm waiting for somebody to tell me to stop fucking with my hands. But nobody in this classroom gives a shit about me or the fact that I'm destroying my hands. The only person that ever tells me to stop it is Craig.

My hands were actually starting to improve a little. It wasn't much, but I'd let them heal enough to be able to take off two whole Band-Aids. Granted, the reason Craig was helping was because now when I hang out with, my hands usually get involved in some sort of debauchery. But nevertheless, my hands hadn't looked as nice as they did five minutes ago since I was like, twelve.

Craig doesn't show, not even by the time class ends.

I've completely ripped up my hands. They're a disgusting, bleeding mess.

The fluffy decorations and students toting around corny gifts doesn't help one bit. Every time I see a heart-shaped balloon, I start peeling and picking harder, wringing my hands. They keep slipping, though, because of the blood. I keep wondering if I did something wrong. I wonder if I underestimated how mad I made Craig when I made fun of his movie. At my locker, I send a panicked text to Craig saying that I'm sorry. The grammar and punctuation that I pride myself on go to absolute hell, because my fingers slip and I don't care enough to go back and correct my mistakes. I just want him to know that I'm sorry.

I need to smoke. At least nicotine will give me some semblance of calm.

"Tweek!" I hear behind me, as I stalk down the hallway, "Tweek, dude, wait up!"

Clyde skids to a stop beside me, but I keep walking. He trudges forward, picking up his pace, and says, "Shit, dude. You walk fast." Normally I would say something about how I have grasshopper legs, and Clyde's legs are actually kind of stubby, but I refrain. Mostly because I think I might have a panic attack if I open my mouth.

"What do you want?" I end up snapping at him. I am really, really fucking seriously not in the mood for Clyde.

Clyde continues to follow me despite my hostility, even though we're outside now. It isn't snowing, but it's cold, and Clyde's only wearing a light zip hoodie with the superman logo on it, over a flimsy t-shirt. He says, "I just wanted to tell you that Craig says he's sorry he's not at school today. Token and I went to go pick him up and he's like, super sick. Looks like death, and he could barely talk, man."

I cross the street. Henrietta is the only one outside smoking. I fumble in my pockets for my American Spirits, knowing I'm staining my jeans with my bloody hands, and really not giving two shits.

Craig is sick? He never gets sick.

So I say, "Craig is never sick."

"I know, right?" Clyde replies, "The last time I remember him being sick was like, when we were ten. But he's stressed right now, like, super stressed. He's focused on shit other than being healthy, I guess. But Tweek, dude, he looked like balls. He wouldn't even move."

I stick a cigarette in my mouth and offer one to Clyde. He holds up a hand and says, "Nah bro, that shit is bad for you." From where she's sitting, Henrietta snorts. Clyde sticks his tongue out at her and she flips him off.

"Ngh – I guess that's my fault, then," I say. I mean, what else has Craig been doing, other than screwing around with me and feeling guilty about it later? I light my cigarette and inhale, relieved that Craig isn't upset with me, but concerned that he's so in over his head that his immune system gave him the old 'fuck you.'

Clyde sees the Chinpokomon stickers on my lighter and says, "Sweet, dude. You like Chinpokomon? I have like every game. When we were little I had all the stuffed animals, too, but I gave most of them to my little cousins. That's so cool, though." I smile half-heartedly and pocket it again, saying nothing. Clyde goes on, "But yeah, he gets really hyper about his folks finding out. But really? I think that they'd be chill with it, at least eventually. It might take his old man some time, but if you ask me, his mom would be cool about it right off the bat. And Ruby, dude, she ships you guys so hard."

"Uh, 'ships'?" I say.

Clyde blushes a little and rubs the back of his neck, "It's a fan sort of thing. Basically it means – "

"I know what it means. How the fuck do you know?" I ask. Is _everybody_ weirder than I thought?

Clyde laughs nervously, "I, um, read Teen Titans fanfiction sometimes, and Red Racer, too, I guess. I tried writing it, you know, but I'm no good at that. Got my ass flamed on the internet," he shrugs his shoulders and adds, "I kinda started when Craig and you…you know. We just don't hang out as much. It's funny, I sort of had this idea that Craig and I would be forever alone bros, you know, forever. But it turns out that the reason he didn't ever have a girlfriend is cause he's into dudes. I can't date girls cause they all think I'm stupid or whatever."

See what I mean about Valentine's Day? It makes everybody sentimental.

And to be honest, I would really rather not talk to Clyde about his emotions, but now I feel bad for him. He's so social, but he's not really doing much now, because his two best friends are involved in relationship-type-things. I mean, I _love_ sitting alone and reading fanfiction, but Clyde? Clyde loves people. He loves everybody. He loves Craig even though Craig's a big dick a lot of the time. He even makes and effort with me, even though I've been a total asshat to him this entire time.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I sigh, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, "Sorry. I'm sorry that I'm taking up all Craig's time."

"What? Oh, no, dude, it's not your fault. Craig should fucking remember his bros. I'd tell him, but he's so weirdly happy with you, dude. I can't do it."

"Ngh – then I'll tell him," I say.

Clyde exclaims, "No! He'll just tell me that I'm being a whiny little bitch."

"But, you're not?" I saying questioningly, eyeing him.

Clyde looks up sharply, "You think so?"

"The whiniest bitch that I know is _me_," I say, "Just talk to him, man. Jesus – I mean, he'll probably think that you're kidding at first or whatever, but when he realizes that you're serious, he'll cut the shit."

Clyde laughs lightly. He remarks, "Sounds about right. Hey – um, I'm gonna go to class, but Tweek? Thanks."

I'm not sure what I did, but whatever just happened, I'm glad that it did. Clyde is still annoying as fuck, I think, but he's cooler than I gave him credit for. I'll tell Craig that he's lucky to have a friend like Clyde. Craig probably knows that already, but it doesn't hurt to remind him.

**o.o.o.o**

I make a quick pit stop at my house after school to clean up my hands properly, before heading out to see Craig. I grabbed his homework from his classes, not because I'm actually helpful, but because I want to be able to make sure that he's okay. I figure that if his parents are home, I'll at least have an official-sounding excuse with homework in my hands. Shit, I hope that'll work. His parents seem a little strict, and his dad is definitely why he's wound up so tight.

But when I knock on the Tuckers' door, Ruby is the one that answers. She smiles when she sees me and says mockingly, "Here to see you _boooyfriend_?" she takes a sip of the Capri Sun in her hand and says, "He's indisposed at the moment. You might wanna back off, since he's under quarantine and all."

"Jesus Christ, what does he have? The black plague?" I narrow my eyes at her. I'm guessing that their parents aren't currently in residence – Ruby is too cautious to even jokingly refer to Craig as my boyfriend, even though that isn't really what he is, anyway. I figure I'll just keep referring to us as having a _thing_ until I get further clarification.

I push past Ruby and into the house.

Ruby protests, "Seriously, Tweek, he's like really gross right now."

I think that this should be off-putting. It should be, right? I hate germs. I sanitize my hands after pretty much anything – my hand brushing the bathroom counter or a table in the cafeteria, and don't even get me started on drinking fountains. I don't do those things whatso-fucking-ever, because that shit is a giant petri dish of disgusting.

Point is, I get sick so easily that sick people should be gross and terrifying to me.

Like, I can't express enough how my least favorite places on the planet are hospitals and doctors' offices. Sure, they're clean, in a weird, cheap lemon cleaner and sharp-smelling disinfectant sort of way. Those smells should reassure me, right? Make me feel safer? But they don't. It makes me think of old people hooked up to oxygen tanks, people sneezing into drippy tissues, and baby vomit. Really fucking icky things, if you ask me.

But Craig being sick seems to fall into a different category in my mind.

All I can think of his how he must feel like shit, and that makes me feel like shit.

So I say, "Ngh – I don't give a flying fuck. I'll make him feel better, or something."

Ruby follows me as I make my way toward the basement. She asks, "Aren't you like, a total germaphobe?"

I shrug my shoulders and reply, "Not now, apparently."

I head down to the basement. At Craig's door, I consider knocking. I don't know, he might be indecent. But then, why would he be indecent right now? And if he was, I guess it's nothing that I haven't seen before. Still, I turn the knob quietly, in case he's asleep (that's what normal people do when they're sick, right? I usually just pace around my room until the carpet goes bald).

At first I can't tell if he's awake or sleeping. The TV at the foot of his bed is on. It's playing Spirited Away, and I can't help but feel a little giddy that's he's watching the first movie we watched together – alone, that is, without Token and Clyde. His bed looks like a massive pile of blankets and crumpled tissues. There's a bag of cough drops sliding toward the edge of his mattress. Some have already fallen out onto the carpet. The pile shifts as Craig rolls over.

Said pile addresses me hoarsely, "Ruby, get me more Kleenex."

"Not Ruby," I say.

Craig emerges from the pile, tugging his down comforter off of his face. Jesus Christ. He _does_ look like death. His olive skin is paler than mine. His eyes look sunken in, his nose is red and raw, and there's an unhealthy flush to his cheeks.

"Tweek," he says, like he doesn't believe that I'm actually standing there. He's losing his voice. It's barely above a rough whisper.

"I brought you some stuff," I say, unloading the things that I have packed in my bag. I give him his homework first, arranging it neatly on his desk, so he can work on it when he feels better.

"I am sick on Valentine's Day, and you bring me homework," he states, "fucking asshole."

So he does care that it's Valentine's Day. Corporate greed, my ass. I can't help but smirk a little. I say, "Ngh – the homework was a backup plan to get in your house, in case your parents wouldn't let me see you. So, um, sorry. I bought you an actual Valentine's gift, though." I pull out the card and giftcard, placing them on top of his comforter, someplace around his abdomen.

Craig picks the card up first.

It's definitely corny…but I have a feeling that Craig enjoys puns more than he's willing to let on. This is why, in Crayola markers, I drew Yoda (poorly) and scrawled across the top "Yoda one for me."

Craig chuckles. Or tries to chuckle, rather. He ends up having a coughing fit, hacking into his hands. He picks up one of the crumpled tissues on his bed to wipe at his mouth.

"Fuck," he mutters, when the coughing subsides. He tosses to his other side, and then tosses back again, facing me, "It hurts to fucking _breathe_," he says, and then repeats, "Fuck."

I probably shouldn't stay too long, even though I feel this incessant need to take care of Craig. I know that it would annoy him if I did that, though. He doesn't like to coddled, and I imagine he likes it even less when he has a temperature. I know what a fever looks like. His dark eyes are glazed over, and a thin film of sweat slicks his forehead.

I expect his next words to be kicking me out of his bedroom so that he can get some much-needed rest, but instead, Craig says, "I got something for you, too. S'on my dresser."

It isn't hard to identify. Craig cleared a space among the chaotic rubble of wires, change and action figures, and set it there. A square of plastic. I pick it up. It's a CD. The cover is hand-drawn.

"Too poor to buy shit," Craig explains wearily, "So I made you a mix."

I'm so flattered that I don't know what. I mean, I thought that I was the arts and crafts guy, but it turns out that Craig has even more weirdness hidden up his sleeve. The mix CD is not very originally named, just "Happy Valentine's." The awesome part is what Craig drew. He's not half-bad at art. He's obviously unpracticed, but I guess it's one of those thing in which he had to choose what was more important to him, and Craig chose cross country and swimming over honing his skill in drawing.

He drew me Chinpokomon.

"Ngh, Craig, this is so –"

He looks like he's sleeping.

I pad softly over to his bedside and hover. Maybe I should like, kiss him goodnight or something. Do people that are kinda-sorta-maybe dating do stuff like that? Even if they don't, I want to. It's just that he looks different when he's sleeping. His brow is relaxed and he's not scowling. He doesn't exactly look peaceful or reverent – those words are too pretty to describe how Craig looks. He looks…sacked out. He's breathing through his mouth, I suppose probably because his nose is stuffed up.

I lean down.

Craig speaks without opening his eyes, "Don't kiss me. I don't wanna give you this shit."

Jesus, he's like, psychic or something.

"And I'm not psychic, you just breathe loudly," he mumbles on, "gonna sleep now, kay."

"Okay," I say back. I run a hand through his damp hair, combing down a piece that's sticking up funny. Then I tell him, "Get better soon."

"Mmph," is about all Craig can articulate in his state.

I close the door behind me as quietly as I can, and succeed. This is huge accomplishment for me, until I trip over my own feet and fall, face-planting into the leftmost ugly sofa.

"Jesus," I say, rubbing the tender spot on my head as I traverse up the stairs.

Upstairs, Ruby is cuddled up on the couch with her legs crossed. Perched on her knees is a laptop – a laptop that is distinctly not hers. The giveaway (if not for the Luke Skywalker decal) is in faded and redrawn sharpie bubble letters: The name "Craig."

"What?" she says, when I lift an accusing brow.

I reply, "Ngh – I thought you were a hacker, not a thief."

"I am, but if is he just leaves it out on the kitchen table, his shit it fair game," she shrugs, "Besides, he has like, everything password protected and crap, so I'm still hacking, technically. It's just easier than usual. You wanna see something totally adorable?"

I wander over to her side, thinking that maybe she has a Youtube video of a puppy or something, but it isn't. It _is_ a video, but it isn't on Youtube, and it is definitely not a puppy. It's Craig. A Craig from like ten million years ago, but without a doubt, Craig.

His video diary.

Ruby snickers and comments, "He's so beautifully _awkward_."

The original Stripe is in Craig's hands. He looks around twelve or thirteen. He's more baby faced, with rounder cheeks and a hesitant smile. His braces are blue and yellow like his hat. Hs nose is speckled in zits. I guess since then, he's discovered face wash. I think the best part, though, is the dark fuzz on his upper lip. I can't help but chuckle at bit at pre-shaving Craig.

It's funny. When we were this age, I didn't notice at all how awkward he looked. I thought of Craig as one of the "cool guys," that walked with a swagger in his step, and knew how to talk to people without panicking. But looking at this thirteen-year-old Craig now, and thinking back, he was just as anti-social and youthfully unattractive as I had been – except that I'd had opposite issues. When I was thirteen, my eyes were too big for my face, and I had absolutely no body hair, making me look about nine. And sure, I still have huge eyes and Craig is still hairy as hell, but we've grown into it.

"Isn't it awesome?" Ruby cries delightedly, "He's so ugly, it's great."

I open my mouth to retort, but Ruby presses the play button.

"_Say hi to the camera, Stripe,"_ Craig says. Stripe's nose twitches, but other than that, the guinea pig doesn't really react.

Craig talks for awhile about Token and Clyde – _"Token has a girlfriend already. Can you believe that? We're too young for that shit. And Clyde's all up in arms about it. He wants a girlfriend too."_ Craig pauses. He gets up off of his bed and puts Stripe back in his cage. When he returns to sit in front of the camera again, he looks far more serious, a lot more like the Craig he is now.

"_Clyde thinks I want a girlfriend, too. He tried to get Sally to kiss me at lunch yesterday. It was fucking embarrassing."_

Craig sighs.

"_I don't want a girlfriend."_

He's quiet for a few long seconds.

I don't think that I should be watching this. I feel like maybe I've gone too far. This is Craig's private business. I sure as hell wouldn't want anybody watching thirteen-year-old me telling a camera my thoughts and feelings.

"Ruby –" I start.

"Shh!" she hushes me, "He's about to talk about you."

"Ngh – what? Jesus Christ, how many times have you watched this video?" I demand. I send a silent thanks to the universe for making me an only child. God forbid I be forever attached to a sibling like the demon spawn beside me.

"Like a hundred times," Ruby answers eagerly, "especially after you two kissed and shit – oh, here it comes. Quiet."

"_Dad said yesterday that Richard Tweak says his son is gay. He said he doesn't mind if other people have gay kids, but he's glad that I like girls. I didn't know that Tweek likes guys. It makes sense, I guess. And nobody really gives a shit except asshole Cartman. But…"_

Craig's voice hitches.

Oh, Christ. Has he been struggling like this all the way since then? Fuck. I wish that I had known. I wish I'd been around to tell him that it was okay and that I thought we was the coolest kid in our class, because I did.

"_What if I don't like girls."_

Another pause.

"_I don't think I do."_

Craig runs his hands through his badly cut hair and heaves a sigh. He says, _"I mean, maybe I like girls. I haven't ever liked one before, but you never know,"_ his voice drops to a whisper, _"Dad can't find out, but I was sooo happy when I found out that Tweek likes guys. Clyde thinks he's weird, but I think he's cool. He doesn't talk to me, but I caught him looking at me this one time. And he has a Star Wars binder. He's like, really twitchy, but –"_

Behind him, Craig's bedroom door opens. It's ten-year-old Ruby. She crows, _"Will you shut up and stop talking to yourself, you freak? Karen and I are _trying_ to watch Mulan, asshole."_

Craig flips her off and mutters, _"Go to hell,"_ before the camera shakes, and the video goes black.

What did I just see?

**o.o.o.o**

**Big, big thank yous to my superb reviewers: glow vomit, MariePierre, Alex0821, Amberr-chan, blobblab, Reverse Psychology, TheAwesome15, KirstenTheDestroyer, PWN3D, NightmareMyLove, Wendlekins, ObanesHarvest, Mallory, Cynical B. Itch, and makayla diana schmidt. **

**Questions/Comments/Suggestions? Hit me up!**


	12. Like a Playground to Me

**Chapter Track: Sex Karma – Of Montreal**

Ruby got ahold of my e-mail.

I suppose that I shouldn't be surprised. All she would have to have done is break into Craig's e-mail and find the address belonging to me (not difficult to figure out. I've had it since I was like twelve, and as stupid as it is, it still suits me – chinpoko-espresso666).

And now, _now_ Ruby is e-mailing me more of Craig's video diary. I have no idea what her motive is other than to humiliate the both of us, since she seems to find that so enjoyable. Still, I refuse to open them, no matter how tempting the titles of her e-mails are (_Last year he talks about you!_ Or… _So cute! _Or… _About your kiss!_). I imagine that the reason she abuses exclamation points so liberally is because she's trying to grab my attention. It's working.

I spend the entire week wanting to tattletale on her to Craig, but he's still out sick with the illness that turned out to be strep throat – and so I'm kind of relieved that he told me not to kiss him, and that I listened. He definitely _breathed_ on me, though, so I know that I'm not entirely out of the woods.

But Jesus Christ, Ruby Tucker is the biggest fucker internet troll _ever_. I want to open those e-mails so badly, but I can't do it and still feel good about myself. Part of a diary, whether it's filmed or on paper, is that it's only yours. Its' your private shit, your place to go where nobody will judge you. So I'm kind of dying to invade that space. Because I want to know what Craig Tucker says when nobody is listening but a camera. And I know very well that I shouldn't. The fact that I'm even considering it pisses me off.

But I've let the e-mails rot in my inbox all week.

And now it's Saturday. The anomalous event of not being scheduled on a Saturday has occurred, though I do have work tomorrow. I was excited that I had Saturday off, until Ruby sent this shit to me. I should just delete them. I should. I really, really should. But I'm so fucking curious.

Downstairs, the doorbell rings. I hear my mom clamoring in the kitchen as she sets dishes aside to answer it.

After an internal struggle involving me hovering the mouse over the e-mails, I bite my lip and click out of the tab and into my go-to illegal anime streaming website. I've started watching a new one, Black Butler. I'm only a couple episodes in, but it's starting to get interesting enough that I think it can distract me from the temptation of Craig's video diary.

But as the episode starts playing, I hear my mom call for me.

"Sweetheart, your friend is here!"

And then there are feet pounding up the stairs. Fucking Kenny. Running around my house like he owns the place. My doorknob creaks as it turns. I panic.

"No! Don't come in!" I cry out, launching myself at the door and hugging it shut. And now that he's been in my room once, he probably thinks that it's fair game. Has Kenny never heard of such a thing called a personal bubble? Because my bubble is fucking big when it comes to my bedroom.

"Are you naked or what," comes a voice that does not at all belong to Kenny McCormick.

Craig.

Craig is here.

Craig is better.

I throw the door open and propel myself onto him, tugging him into a hug. Craig makes an _erk_ sort of noise in his throat, from the surprise. He does as he usually does when he is hugged. He takes a moment to register that somebody's arms are wrapped around him, before fitting his own arms into the equation. I've kind of swallowed him with my height, even though he's only two inches shorter than I am.

Then I realize the reason for that is because he's craning his neck to see what's in my room.

"Ngh – what are you doing?" I ask. He doesn't seem to hear the annoyance in my tone.

"I've never seen your room before," responds Craig, which doesn't at all answer my question, but when has Craig ever given me straight answers, anyway?

"That's because I don't let people see it," I return crisply. I slink out of his arms. It's easy enough, because I'm skinny as shit and he's distracted. I close my bedroom door with a purposeful _click_.

When I turn back, Craig is frowning. Not his permanent frown, but an actual, legitimately displeased frown.

"What?" I say, maybe a little too childishly.

Craig responds flatly, "You don't trust me."

Now I'm frowning, too. How to explain my position on people in my bedroom, without sounding like a total and complete freak? But then I think, fuck that, I _am_ a total and complete freak. I explain awkwardly, "It's not you. It's everybody. I don't want people touching my stuff…and stuff." I finish stupidly.

"You let McCormick into your room," he states, scowling.

"Ngh – what?" I manage, "You two are like, communicating now? Jesus Christ. If you must know, he fucking _climbed_ through my window like a monkey or some shit, to force me to go to Token's New Year's party," and then I add as an afterthought, "and he was only in there for like, two seconds."

"Two seconds longer than I have," Craig persists, "C'mon Tweek, don't be an asshole. I won't touch your stuff. I'll just stand in the middle, okay."

I wonder why he's being so insistent upon invading my privacy. My room shouldn't be anything special to him. I mean, sure, there's a bed in there, but we can just screw around in his – and furthermore, you don't even need a bed to screw around, anyway. Just ask Craig's Nissan.

"Why does it matter?" I ask. My voice is more heated than I meant it to, but then, my room is sacred. Christ, letting Craig into my bedroom is even more personal to me than if we fucked, right here, with my parents a mere floor below. I've never just _let_ anybody in there. It's a recent development that there are even people interested in seeing it.

Now my back is pressed against my door. My arms are spread out and I'm clutching the doorframe like I'm some sort of gatekeeper protecting the secrets of Pandora's Box.

Jesus. It's my whole life in there.

Craig is really close to me, close enough that his chest in brushing against mine. If I wasn't so panicked about the idea of somebody in my bedroom, this would probably be turning me on. His breath smells like spearmint. I have come to associate spearmint with being incredibly horny.

Despite the closeness, though, Craig _does_ look as though he's actually trying to come up with an answer to my question. Why does he want to be in my room? He's mulling it over, for sure.

"Because," he says lamely.

"Because _why_?" I say back, refusing to budge.

"Because," he begins again, searching for a legitimate reason, "Because…I don't know. You know everything about me. I want to know you too, or something."

My insides hurt. Not in a sick way. I'm not nauseated or dizzy. No, it feels like Craig has stuck a knife in my gut and twisted it. But –

But.

But it doesn't feel bad.

It's too much pressure, but it's good pressure. It makes me feel twisty and glittery and in pain all at once. I don't know why that's turning out to be a feeling that I enjoy. I've never thought of myself as a masochist. I don't ever appreciate the smallest bit of pain. But this pain is weird and tingly and makes me want to giggle.

I don't end up giggling, but I do let my arms fall to my sides. I say, "Okay."

Defeated, I twist the door handle, and let the door scrape open on its own. I pick my blanket and laptop up off of the floor and place them neatly on my bed. Looking at my computer reminds me of the whole Ruby dilemma.

Shit.

The idea of telling Craig makes me all anxious, even though I know that I should. As much as I fucking loathe it, my therapist tells me that the best way to deal with conflict is to face it head on. I wish that that kind of crap wasn't true, and I could make my problems go away by ignoring them. But fucking unfortunately for me, it _is_ true, and I'm fairly fucking certain that there is no such thing as ignoring Ruby Tucker.

Or any Tucker, for that matter.

"Uh, Craig?" I turn with my laptop in my hands.

Craig is standing in the middle of my room with his hands in his pockets. He's looking at my walls, his eyes flicking over the silkscreen posters I've collected over the years of going to the anime convention down in Denver. His gaze lands back on me when I say his name.

I cough and just let it out, "Your sister has, um."

"What," Craig says, "What did she do."

"Um. Ngh – well, she's been e-mailing me your, um."

"Just spit it out, Tweek," Craig says irritably.

"Jesus Christ!" escapes my mouth before I can help it. I'm losing my shit, here. I don't want to piss Craig off. I've been waiting all week for him to recover from strep, and now that he has, the first thing I'm doing is making me mad. I sputter, "She won't fucking leave me alone, man. She's sending me your videos."

"What," Craig states.

"I haven't watched any of them!" I defend, "…except one. But I didn't know it was gonna –"

"It's fine," Craig says gruffly, "Watch them, whatever. Ruby's invasive sometimes but she knows that there's a line not to cross." He waves me away when I try to show him my inbox on the laptop's screen.

I'm confused.

The two main things that I'm confused about are how much he trusts his sister, and that he also trusts me. I mean, for fuck's sake, does he not realize that she's been sending me pieces of his _diary_? He doesn't even know what parts she sent! Doesn't he care?

"You really like anime, don't you," he states, his eyes sweeping over my stuff. Sometimes catches his attention. He saunters toward it. I make an _eek_ noise, and leap forward to prevent him from touching anything. He looks back at me and says, "Dude. Calm the fuck down. I'm just looking."

I blink over his shoulder at what he's looking at. It's a picture that I tacked above my bedside table, of me and Kenny at Nan Desu Kan a few months ago. I like the photo mostly because of how ridiculous we both look in it. Kenny made himself into a half-assed Naruto by leaving his hood down, gelling up his blond hair, wrapping a Leaf Village headband around his forehead, and drawing whiskers on his cheeks in black eyeliner. Otherwise, he's just dresses normally. I think the best part of the photo, though, is that he's making some horse-faced expression at the camera.

Beside him, I'm not in any sort of costume. I'm just wearing a bunch of the strange shit that you buy at a con and don't need – a Totoro t-shirt, a hat with bunny ears, and My Little Pony badges hooked to the belt loops of my jeans.

Conventions are the only places you can get away with that. I don't actually have any place to wear a hat with bunny ears on it.

Okay, but I do wear the Totoro shirt from time to time.

Craig leans away from the picture. I think he's gonna say something about how stupid Kenny and I look. It would kind of be fair. We look a little stupid. But we were having fun.

Instead, he comments, "We need a photo of us."

"Oh," I say.

"You _do_ have a camera," he says, lifting his eyebrows.

"Uh, yes!" I yank out the second to the top desk drawer and retrieve my camera. Like my lighter, I've decorated it with sparkly Chinpokomon stickers.

I bring it over and sort of lean into Craig so I can take a Myspace-style photo, but Craig's ski jacket is too bulky for us to get close. I withdraw and tell him, "Take off your jacket. Ngh – it's the way."

He gives me a look and says, "You sure I won't get my cooties or whatever all over your shit?"

I glare, "Fuck you, man. It's not _cooties_, it's…I don't know."

_I'm letting you in, maybe_, I think to say.

Or perhaps, _I trust you._

_I don't want to trust you._

Trust is scary. Even people that I'm generally okay with, or even like a little, I don't really trust. Take Kenny, for example. I enjoy his company from time to time, but the fucker climbed through my bedroom window when he couldn't get what he wanted out of me. As cool as he can be, he has next to no sense of personal boundaries. He understands boundaries that revolve around sex. That's his thing. But emotional boundaries? He has never even fucking heard of them.

I place my camera on my bed, next to my laptop, and move to unzip Craig's coat. My hands shake, like they always do, but I eventually manage to grip the rubber-coated zipper and pull it down slowly, a few teeth parting at a time. I peel the jacket off of his shoulders, folding it in half an draping it over the back of my computer chair.

Craig grabs my wrist.

"Your hands," he says, snatching the other one and bringing them both to his face, "What did you do."

Well, shit. _You were gone all week, Craig,_ I think to myself, _so nobody was there to tell me to stop picking at them. _

Now my hands look sort of mummified. My mom had to buy two whole new boxes of Band-Aids because I kept picking the old ones off.

I can't meet Craig's eyes. I rest my head near his shoulder and whisper, my voice muffled by his blue hat, "I missed you."

The realization hits me full force.

I already trust Craig.

Fuck.

This has nothing to do with Craig being in my bedroom. I let him in here without much of a fight, anyway.

I trust him with my hands. I think it happened all the way back when we watched Let the Right One In at Token's house, and I started to chew on my hands when I got scared. He held my hand instead of just letting my gnaw on it.

Damn it.

Just, damn it.

Whatever's happening between us right now feels strange, and nice. Craig is holding my hands, and he has this look on his face that's a mixture of annoyance and concern. I'm standing with my head hanging and my epiphany ringing in my ears. Because, fuck. My mom can put the Band-Aids on my hands, but Craig is the only one that's ever been able to take them off.

Craig presses a kiss to the palm of each hand.

He breaks away from me and retrieves the camera from where I placed it on my bed, passing it to me.

I turn it on and hold it out in front of us, clicking a picture.

My aim isn't very good. I manage to take a shot of us from our mouths to mid-torso. When I try a second time to get it right, I angle the camera too far in the other direction, capturing our noses up, and some of my wall.

Craig sighs and pulls the camera from my grip. He says, "Let me."

I don't know what he's doing. He messes with the menu or some shit, half-muttering nonsense to himself, until he says, "There." Craig places it across the room, on my desk.

He figured out the timer? Shit, I've never been able to do that.

Craig guides me down to sit on the edge of my bed. At first I just awkwardly stretch my face into a camera smile, but I glance over to see what Craig is doing.

Craig is making a face. He's sticking his tongue out so that it extends out toward me.

"Jesus, Craig," I say exasperatedly.

I kiss the face off of him.

Or something like that.

We go from zero to a hundred in about two seconds flat, because fuck. I know this whole time that the scent of spearmint has kept me at half-mast, because in spite of being irritated with Craig, thinking of the taste of his mouth is erotic and perfect and wonderful.

I accidentally knock my laptop to the floor in my effort to hoist Craig up onto the mattress and under me. I silently thank the universe that I decided to shower this morning.

In typical form, I rip his hat off of his head and throw it across my room so that I can have my hands in his hair. Usually I'd worry that I'm too eager, but in an impressive maneuver, Craig grips the hem of my t-shirt and yanks it over my head in sync with his own, tossing both onto the ground.

He's gotta teach me how he did that.

Craig lurches forward and bites my shoulder.

Forget half-mast.

Craig runs his tongue over the place that he bit. He nibbles and sucks. I don't know how I've been able to survive without this for an entire week. Because Christ, I would give myself strep throat to be like this with Craig Tucker any motherfucking day of the week.

Craig breathes harshly into my shoulder, his nails digging into the shoulder blades as I work at the fly of his jeans, with little result. He kisses my neck patiently and mutters, "Fuck, Tweek. I have never spent so much time in my life feeling so fucking horny. Just, shit."

I feel a swell of pride in my chest. Christ, if I make him feel even as half as randy as I get when I think of him, I have accomplished a goddamned dream. I'm not used to feeling so many wonderful things at once – pride, happiness, that awesome twisty-glittery feeling that's moved from my gut and into my heart, and whatever Craig's hand is doing at the front of my pants.

_Mine mine mine._

He kisses my neck and I run my tongue along his, while our hands grapple it out in a session of _Who can get whose pants off first_?

I win.

I fucking win.

I tug off Craig's jeans so effectively that they fly across the room and make something crash. I don't even care. I don't care if it's one of my action figures or a poster or one of the lunchboxes in my treasured collection. I do not give a fuck. I just want my skin on his as fast as we can make it happen. I want his Craig smell all over me again.

He's wearing nerdy underwear again. It isn't Star Wars, but it's equally as Craig – they're patterned in little Red Racer helmets. I grin at him. He catches my look and rolls his eyes, though not unkindly. Or maybe I've just become accustomed to Craig being an asshole. In any case, now that I've appreciated his boxers, I feel perfectly fine with tearing them off of his body.

_Mine mine mine._

Craig is mine.

I sit back in a crouch, admiring him. I have a moments like these sometimes when things heat up between us, moments where I can't believe that this is happening to me. To Tweek. The psycho kid. The kid that's little more than a glorified toddler, throwing tantrums in class, or freaking out when people touch him. I've wanted Craig like this for so long. I can't believe that it's happening. Things don't do this. They don't go my way. Maybe I should be suspicious but I'm enjoying myself too much.

Craig's breathing is erratic as he thumbs the waistband of my boxers. The look in his eyes is heavy. It's not a look that I'm used to when I'm mostly naked. Sure, it's coated over with lust, and when I wrap my hands around his cock, it turns to desperation. But the heavy look doesn't leave, and I don't know what to call it, other than important.

His whole body is on fire. I bend forward to kiss his collarbone. He still has faded hickeys around the same area. I can't help it. I love that part of Craig. I love every part of Craig, but something in the way that his skin moves over his collarbone when he breathes out need makes me fall to pieces – fall to happy, horny pieces.

Craig manages to get my jeans down to my knees. I lift up briefly and kick them off the rest of the way.

I capture his lips in a hard kiss and run my quaking hand up and down his shaft. He moans into my mouth and bites down on my bottom lip. Fuck. Fuck, everything he does is perfect. Everything Craig does makes me want him more and more.

Even though I'm the one sitting on top of him, I let Craig guide me into what he wants. If I trusted myself enough to leave it to me, I would absolutely be all over and everywhere and inside of him. But I don't trust myself with that, because I don't want to push Craig too far.

He closes his hand over mine where I'm moving gingerly over his cock. I don't want to scrape him with my Band-Aids, but he presses my fingers onto him more tightly.

I want him so badly.

I love it when he's like this, gasping and squirming and out of control.

Craig pulls at my hair and yanks me down, kissing my throat. He scrapes his teeth over the already bruised skin and wheezes, "Tweek, I wanna – I want to –"

I kiss a trail from the hollow of his neck, down to his navel. When he speaks I pause for a brief moment. "Want to what?" I mumble against his abdomen, before I continue to press wet kisses to the faint indent of musculature. I keep wondering why he'd want a skinny little shit like me.

Craig heaves me up so that we sit chest to chest. Through my boxers, my erection presses against his. For a moment I can't find my breath, until his lips crush against mine and his tongue traces my teeth.

We break, and his heavy eyes search mine, looking I should already know what he wants. Like I can read his mind.

"I want to…to do it," he finishes awkwardly.

"Huh?" is my first response. Every time we've been tangled up in each other like this before, he's stopped me. He has always reached the point of _no_, and that was okay. We would just lay panting in each other's arms.

"Oh," I say stupidly, "_Oh. _Ngh – wow."

So I comply, lifting to me knees and discarding my boxers. I lower my body to lay beside him, and wait for Craig to take the reins and climb up on me like I was on him. He just stares. Then he blushes, "No – I mean – fuck," he stammers and runs an irate hand through his hair, making it stand up in all directions. He looks almost pained when he continues, "I want _you_ to, uh –"

I feel my mouth unhinge slightly. "You want me to top?" My voice goes unusually high, from a combination of surprise and anticipation.

But I remember, then, that Craig is still very much a virgin. I say, "You know that that's gonna fucking hurt, right?"

He glares and responds sarcastically, "No, Tweek, I'm really stupid. I was under the impression that losing my ass virginity would feel like a goddamn Slip N' Slide."

For fear of killing the mood, I don't point out that if a Slip N' Slide isn't properly lubricated, it actually kind of hurts to slide down, making the comparison more accurate than Craig intended. Instead I just make a face at him and mutter, "Don't be a dickhead," before shifting back on top.

My breath catches.

I can't tell you how long I have fantasized about exactly this.

No, actually I can. It's fairly simple to pinpoint when I look back through the years of creeping on Craig. My first all-out sex dream starred him. I was twelve. I felt kind of guilty when I woke up from images of us kissing and groping and touching with a boner, the likes of which I had never seen before. I can remember because on top of rarely sleeping, remembering the dreams I have is an even b seldom occurrence.

"Tweek!" Craig snaps at me, "Just do it already. Christ."

I make a mocking face at him, but lean over my mattress so that I can reach under my bed. I keep it neat under there, maybe obsessively, since dust grosses me out and I clean madly whenever I notice it beginning to gather. From there, I retrieve my shoebox full of sex things – I wish that I had a celever name for it, but I don't. I wonder briefly if Craig would want me to wrap up, but I decide that he's impatient and it doesn't really matter, anyway. I surface with a thing of lube.

We smell like sex already, I think, as I coat my fingers generously. Sex smells wonderful to me. It's right up there with the aroma of coffee and the scent of spearmint gum, both of which are also in the air. But sex-smell, that's different. It smells human and raw and when you smell it, you know that you're pleasing somebody. Hopefully that's what you're doing, that is.

I stoop over and kiss the top of Craig's head. This is the kind of display of affection that he usually objects to, but right now, he's too nervous to bitch at me. He would never communicate that apprehension to me out loud, but I know that it's true. He's chewing on his lower lip and looks like he is deep in concentration.

With my dry hand, I rake my fingers through his hair. I tilt his chin up and kiss him. Then I ask, "Ngh – are you sure?"

"Yes," he says shortly, sounding annoyed, but not as confident as he often does.

And because of that – because he doesn't sound 100% certain, even though I've wanted this for like, fucking forever, I offer hesitantly, "I could uh, still be on bottom if you want. If that would b-be easier."

Craig inhales slowly through his nose. "For fuck's sake, no. I'd like fuck it up and hurt you or something. I don't know how to do this," he bursts. He looks uncomfortable, now that we've gotten to the root of the problem, and his insecurities. He's always afraid that he's going to do something wrong, but no matter how much I tell him that there's very little he could mess up, Craig doesn't believe me.

But Jesus, why do I have to be considerate _now_, of all times? I'm literally on top of Craig, about to get what I've been dying to have, but I can't do it until I'm sure that Craig is sure.

I propose, "I can teach you while I'm still on bottom, it's not a big –"

"Tweek, shut the _fuck up_ and _fuck me_," Craig growls. He pulls me forward into a searing kiss, pushing his tongue against mine urgently. I push back.

I nudge his legs further apart with me knees. He opens his eyes when I do, looking at me for confirmation on what's about to happen. I give a small nod and he lets out a wavering breath. Jesus Christ, I love riling him up.

I rest my forehead against his as I slide the first finger inside of him, carefully. A pleasant shudder rolls through his body, and Craig reaches up to grip his hands in my hair. I try to make him more confortable before moving, bumping him back so his head lies flat against my pillows. Craig's eyes shutter closed. He swallows.

So I whisper nice things to him as I thrust my finger in and out, patiently. I tell him about all the things that I love about him while I stretch him, adding a second finger when he feels ready. He makes a soft noise of discomfort. I imagine that it probably stings, but he can't say that I didn't warn him.

Craig's breath trembles a little when I knead inside him. With my free hand, I comb his dark hair and press damp kisses to his jaw.

I bite down on his neck at the exact moment that I add a third finger. The fit is tight and Craig whines involuntarily. Fuck, I love when I can get him to lose it, when I can coax noises out of him that he didn't even know he could make. I bite him again, harder, this time, in sync with a thrust of my fingers.

"Shit," voices Craig, and which action he's referring to, I can't be sure. I lean back and cast him a leering grin. It takes a moment, but he smiles back, just a little, and with snark – but he _does_ smile. He's just also giving me the middle finger at the same time.

I press a second-long kiss to his lips and murmur, "You ready?" But my question is more rhetorical than anything, as Craig's about as ready as he'll ever be.

I slick myself with lube, as thoroughly as I can. I don't want to hurt Craig either, even though I know on a first time it's inevitable. I crawl back to hover above him, my hands sinking into the mattress on either side of his chest. With one, I guide his legs up around me. He looks very serious as I do, very focused. In an entertaining show of role reversal, I murmur to him, "You need relax, okay?" He nods, and covers my hands with his, clutching them firmly.

Best to make it quick, I estimate.

With a huff of air, I thrust my body inside Craig's.

I keep still. It's agonizing. He feels so perfect wrapped around me, all heated and tense. Craig makes a strangled noise. I pull one of my hands from his grip and pet his hair. I tell him, "It's okay to swear."

His reply comes out choked, "But your parents."

"They don't care," I soothe. And it's true. They don't care – as long as I'm safe.

Craig takes a deep breath and curses, "_FUCK._" He's not actually that loud. Where our hands are still linked, his grip tightens into a vice. He clings to me like he's the survivor of a shipwreck and I'm the only thing keeping him afloat.

His eyes water, and he scrunches them up in pain. I feel bad about hurting him, all achey in my chest, but I want to move. Christ, do I want to move.

"Okay," he says quietly, "Okay. You can go."

I withdraw about halfway and plunge back in. I take it slow at first, being as gentle with him as my libido will allow me. But with each thrust, it gets harder to control myself. I get rougher out of pure need. To compensate, I close my hand around Craig's dick and pump determinedly. He gasps and groans.

I feel his death hold on his other hand begin to ease. He starts to arch off of the mattress to meet my every move.

Then I hit it – Craig's sweet spot. He whispers brokenly, "Oh, _fuck. _Tweek. Shit."

I grin widely. Now that I've found it, I won't give it up. When I hit his prostate a second time, he loses his shit. Control of either of our parts goes sailing out of the window. My moaning and keening is loud, so unabashedly that my voice is almost unrecognizable as my own. And Craig, just _fuck_. He's all teary-eyed out of satisfaction. He's let go of his need to be quiet, or his concern that my parents might hear us (Because to hell with it, they already have by now). His noises of gratification are louder than mine. He grunts and moans my name is lieu of whining or crying out like I do.

I don't know how much longer I can hang on. I mumble into Craig's ear that I think I'm going to come, but he beats me to the punch. He spills all over my hand and his abdomen, stumbling mid-moan over my name.

A final cry tears from my throat. I slam back inside him and come, my hands tangled in his short hair. His nails dig into my back, enough that there will be marks for a few days.

For an extended moment, we just lay there, skin to skin, with our bodies still connected. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. We kiss frantically, panting into each other's mouths.

I eventually manage to peel my body off of his, making a sticky noise as I fall onto my back next to him. Neither of us can think of anything to say. There are about a billion things running through my head, though – at first only short, halting, one-word notions.

Fuck.

Wow.

Jesus Christ.

"S'good?" I finally ask.

Craig looks over at me with sated eyes. He lifts a hand lazily and rubs it through my sweat-damp hair, mumbling a soft, "Mmm," which I decide to take as an affirmative. He says, voice slightly raw, "M'a sleep. Sex…melts my brain, or some shit."

But he smiles. Not a snarky smile, either, though his smile is a little crooked and unpracticed. Craig nestles his head back into the nearest pillow – I have quite a few – and strips my blanket out from under us, covering our naked bodies with it.

I won't be able to sleep. I just can't. But, I am calm. My heart is pumping from the exertion, not from being on edge and nervous. Craig hums and rolls closer to me, leaning his scratchy, stubble-covered cheek on my (somewhat puny) bicep. For awhile, we sit just like that. I occupy myself by stroking his hair back into place until the pattern of his breathing falls into even sleep-breaths.

As soon as I'm sure that he's out for good, I rise and open my window, even though it's snowing. It's moist and hot and reeks of sex in here, and I want to smoke.

I light a cigarette and retrieve my poor laptop from where it sits upside down on my carpet. I clamber over Craig, and then snuggle back into place among my pillows.

He _did_ give me permission to watch those videos, and I _am_ curious. I type my password in and spare a glance at his sleeping body. There's still a slight red in his cheeks. It would make him look oddly young if it wasn't for him being so hairy. But Christ, when I look at him, my insides get all stabby and twisty and glittery. Now all I think is _mine mine mine_, like an alarm sounding off in my head.

I turn my attention back to my computer. I know I panicked, but Ruby has actually only sent me three excerpts of Craig's video diary. I still can't believe that he trusts her enough to believe that she hasn't sent me anything embarrassing…or maybe it's just that he isn't embarrassed if I'm the one watching them, which is equally as unbelievable.

The first e-mail is entitled _Last year he talks about you!_

I glance at Craig again, feeling a bit like a kid with my hand in the cookie jar, before I click open the attachment. I take a drag off of my cigarette while it loads.

In the video, he looks essentially the same as he does now, except last year he went through an experimental eyeliner phase, and this looks to have been filmed in the midst of that. The eyeliner thing lasted only about a week and half, though, because Clyde told him that he looked "faggy." At the time, hearing that was upsetting, because I had thought that Craig was straight and _God forbid he look gay_, but it turns out that he just didn't want to be outed before he was ready. He still isn't ready, despite our recent debauchery.

The video is only a minute and twenty six seconds long.

"_Clyde's onto me," _he says. He paces around his room with his hands hooked behind his back, _"He's all, 'You're staring at Tweek again, asshole,' and I was like, 'I'm just seeing if I can scare him, dickhead,'" _I'd forgotten that the eyeliner phase intersected with the Craig-staring-back phase. _"But Clyde just looks at me like he knows. How can he know. I haven't said anything. I mean, it's not exactly a polite fucking topic of conversation, 'Yeah, I jacked off while thinking about Tweek Tweak.'"_

I sort of laugh at this.

And then I'm sort of horrified that Ruby has watched this.

The rest of the video follows along the same line – worrying over whether or not Clyde has figured out that Craig is gay. It ends with Craig being called to dinner by his mom. I'm just smug about the fact that he masturbated while thinking about m. _Last year._ Because, you know, that's kind of awesome.

I skip over the middle e-mail and to the most recent one, the one entitled _About your kiss! _Jesus Christ, it's just too tempting to pass up. Ruby Tucker knows her audience.

This video starts off similarly to the other, except that Craig is smoking as he paces.

"_He kissed me," _he states, like he doesn't believe that this event has actually happened. Craig repeats it again, _"He kissed me. I've never been kissed. And he just _did _it."_

Craig sucks off of the end of his cigarette like he's starving for nicotine. But if he's this worked up, maybe he is.

"_Goddamnit. I like him. I mean, I knew I liked him already, but. Fuck. And then Stan motherfucking Marsh walks in. Asshole. I fucking hate that guy. First it's my birthday money, then it's interrupting a fucking fantastic goddamn moment. Shit. I hate that guy."_

I mumble to myself, "Ngh – Jesus, if it was that fantastic, why didn't you just tell me that?" It would have been much more effective than sticky notes on my locker. But then, Craig is weird.

"Cause I'm better at talking to a camera than people."

I look down and kind of shriek out of surprise, clapping a hand over my mouth and slamming m laptop closed. Craig is looking up at me out of half-lidded, amused eyes. He says, "Chill. I told you that you could look at those, anyway. Figured she'd send you that one."

"F-fuck, Craig, you scared the living shit out of me," I complain, "Ngh – you were asleep for what, ten minutes?" Also contributing to my outburst is that I'm still not used to people being in my bedroom.

"Yeah. Power nap."

After I give myself a second to calm down, I query, "How are you, um, feeling?"

"Sore," he answers, "Good."

"Sorry," I say, "for the sore part, I mean."

"Don't be. It's an awesome sort of sore."

"I've never heard of sore being awesome," I retort.

He responds, "Then you've obviously never had sex with yourself."

I feel a blush creeping onto my face, and I glance away, chuckling. Craig eventually slides out from underneath the blanket, moving on to assemble his clothing. He picks up his jeans and pauses. Craig glances and goes, "Hey, where'd my underwear go?"

**o.o.o.o**

**An extra thank you to Cynical B. Itch, who introduced me to this chapter's song. :D**

**As always, thank you to the people who brighten my day, my lovely reviewers: MariePierre, ObanesHarvest, KirstenTheDestroyer, glow vomit, blobblab, TheAwesome15, NightmareMyLove, Cynical B. Itch, WizerdBeards, sasukesgothgangstababy, R.R. Miaera, animegafan123, Mallory, Reverse Psychology, and bluepup888. **

**Seriously, if there's something that you like/dislike about the fic, don't hesitate to let me know! I really **_**do**_** take into account what you guys like and use it to improve and make my writing better for you guys. **

**Excuses for late chapter: Work is stressful. Also, I am pretty upset about the Troy Davis execution, and being as upset as I was/am made writing difficult.**

**Oh and um. Sorry for the PWP chapter. THINGS ARE GONNA HAPPEN SOON. REALLY.**


	13. The Holy Scriptures of the Shopping Mall

**Chapter Track: Jesus of Suburbia – Green Day**

Now that second semester has started, I've been forced into a required gym class. I hate gym class, more than I can possibly express in simple words. There are multiple factors that contribute to my abhorrence of this class, the first of which being the mandatory athletic clothing. The shirt is okay, I guess. Since my torso is long, I had to order a huge "South Park High School Cows" shirt, so it's baggy and loose like I like it, hiding my gawky, skinny body. The shorts are another matter entirely. I'd have gotten a larger size, but the larger sizes all slide right off of my hips – my only option was an extra small.

I feel exposed. Hideously, unfairly exposed. I stopped wearing shorts when I hit my growth spurt, at eleven. There's no such thing as shorts that fit me correctly, since my waist is too narrow and my legs are too long. And fuck athletic shorts, seriously. The first thing that Kenny said when he saw me in them was, "Gay, dude," because they're about a half-step from being short shorts, ending about six inches above my knobby knees (In case you're wondering, I hit him when he said this).

And somehow, my awkwardly tiny athletic shorts in combination with jogging laps indoors led Kenny to conclusions about how I spent my weekend.

Kenny just _knows_. At first, I wonder how he could possibly know, but then I realize that I'm talking about Kenny McCormick, and he inexplicably knows many things.

"You're in a good mood today," he remarks.

I can't really respond. I'm tragically out of shape, so I spend all my energy in gym class remembering to breathe, or otherwise trying not to humiliate myself. My efforts tend to be wasted, but I'd like to believe that I've saved myself – or at least delayed – a couple of trips to the nurse's office.

Kenny pats me on the back as we circle the gym for our twelfth lap, and give me an easygoing smile. He asks, "You have a good weekend? You look like you did." How can he even tell that? _How_? I've asked him if he's psychic on multiple occasions, but he insists that he isn't. He could be spying on me, I suppose. I wouldn't put that past him.

I want to reply, but I'm too busy dying. Fuck lungs, for real. In lieu of speaking, I look over at him and scowl.

"I thought so," he smirks. How is he able to run so effortlessly, and talk to me without breaking a sweat? There isn't a single stain of perspiration on his donated gym clothes. No wonder he has people falling all over him in hopes he'll sleep with them. He looks good while participating in a fucking _gym class_.

And Jesus Christ, I want him to stop bugging me about Craig. The way he's looking at me, he may as well make an announcement over the loudspeaker to the entire school. _"Guess what everybody? Tweek Tweak and Craig Tucker finally boned each other! Let's give them a round of applause!"_ Because that is exactly what Kenny would say if given the opportunity.

I wish that I could manage words, and say something like _shut up_ or _fuck you_, but instead, I take a page out of Craig's book and flip him off – without much fervor, sadly. I'm trying really fucking hard not to trip over myself and achieve my ninth gym class-related bloody nose of the semester.

"Cute," Kenny says.

Our gym teacher finally takes up her whistle and blows into it shrilly, shouting, "Okay everybody, take five!"

Fucking _finally._

Kenny and I fall immediately seated on the lowest steps of the bleachers while others make a beeline for the drinking fountains.

He's still looking at me with that Kenny McCormick style _I know what you did_ expression when he nudges, "How was it?"

Rubbing some of the sweat off of my brow with the hem of my enormous t-shirt, I wheeze, "Dude. Shut the fuck up."

"He's walking a little funny," Kenny remarks, "I'm surprised he let you top, he's kind of a domineering asshole –"

I punch Kenny in the arm. I was aiming for his chest, but, it works. He rubs his arm and glares, but I don't think he's seriously mad. I rarely ever see Kenny get actually upset about anything.

It seems that our pissy argument has caught the attention of Clyde, unfortunately, and he walks over to us with his sappy Clyde-smile. He wipes a bit of drinking fountain water (diseased shit that it is) from his chin and greets us with an enthusiastic wave and a, "What's up, guys?"

I feel self-conscious around these two while I'm in this stupid outfit. It's just that Kenny looks good in anything, and Clyde is boyishly handsome in an endearing, I-still-look-fourteen sort of a way. Then there's me, continuing to look like a circus sideshow with sprawling stick legs a gross, splotchy face I get when I run and can't be rid of for several hours. I don't look bad, necessarily, just weird and awkward…and weird and awkward are hard to sell as attractive traits.

Clyde snatches the seat on my other side. My concern that he and Kenny are in league with each other becomes suddenly real when he awards me with a long, leering grin and remarks casually, "Craig's pretty mellow today. Huh, Tweek?"

I glance from Clyde to Kenny, whose grins mirror each other perfectly, and tug at my hair, whining, "Ngh – Jesus, why can't you guys just leave me alone?" I wish that they'd go bother Craig, but Craig isn't here because took weightlifting last semester, so he doesn't need a gym credit. And besides, Craig's lips are always sealed. You can't get _anything_ out of him unless you want to. Kenny and Clyde are bothering me because they know, they fucking know that secrets sometimes just fall out of my mouth of their own accord. The bastards are using my big mouth to their advantage.

Kenny elbows me in side playfully, but his eyes are on Clyde. He says, "Yeah, Craig seems a lot less _anal_ than usual."

A comment at which both of them laugh.

I keep tugging at my hair and snap, "Jesus Christ, you guys! We had sex! _So what?_"

Oh, fuck. My words echo throughout the cavernous gymnasium and just about everybody turns their heads to look at me. Kenny bursts into all-out, hooting guffaws, and Clyde just chuckles, like he's pretending to get a joke that he doesn't understand. I put my face in my hands and mumble, "Christ."

I've never been more thankful to hear the whistle telling us to complete our laps.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig is testy at lunch. I mean, testier than he typically is. I haven't seen him since before school started, and he definitely isn't – as Clyde put it – as "mellow" as he was this morning. Maybe it's that he's hungry, but I'm guessing that it's not. So I stand, and incline my head toward the door, "Gonna smoke. Wanna come?" I say to Craig, but I toss Kenny a _no_ look, so that he won't follow us.

Craig mumbles a few but affirmative indecipherable words, tossing his mostly uneaten school-bought lunch in the nearest trash can.

We walk across the street in silence, side by side, but without touching. It's actually a pretty nice day. The air is a little biting, but it's sunny, and some of the other kids are eating outside to celebrate the first hint of winter leaving. They shouldn't count their chickens, seriously. We still have to have our freak spring blizzard. I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets so I don't mess with my hands.

The smokers' spot is thankfully clear, most of the other smokers probably took care of the habit at the beginning of the lunch period. I take out my cigarettes and stick one in my mouth.

"Can I bum one," Craig says, "My mom flushed mine last night."

And he was still in a good mood this morning? Craig is weird. I hand him one of my cigarettes and we light together. He takes a few drags and sighs softly, before saying, "They all know."

"Which part?" I ask, "The part where you're gay, or the part where you had gay sex?"

Craig flips me off, glowering. He takes a frustrated inhale of nicotine, and grinds out, "I'm fucking serious. How. How does everybody know."

"Um," I start picking at my thumbnail anxiously. I smile a little sheepishly and say, "Ngh – well, I kind of shouted at Kenny in gym. But I didn't say your name! And I just wanted him to leave me alone!"

Craig gives me a blank stare. Then he rolls his eyes in a way that says _Oh, Tweek_. He responds, "I fucking hate that guy. Why you hang out with him is beyond me." He crushes the end of his cigarette into the dirt with the edge of his shoe. He slaps my hand when he notices that I'm picking at them. Craig looks contemplative for a moment, at least, contemplative for him. He says, "What are we doing, anyway."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He makes a vague gesture between us and says, "Us. What is happening here."

That's a damn good question, I think. I just shrug and reply, "Ngh – the fuck if I know."

"So," Craig states, "We're friends."

"Yes," I say, taking a final drag off of my cigarette before flicking it aside.

"And we just have sex," he finishes.

"Great sex," I correct.

"And you're cool with that," he says.

Yeah, I suppose that I am "cool with that," even if it would be nicer to have something a little more tangible. It would be fucking awesome if I could parade us around town and announce everywhere we went, "This is my boyfriend!" Unfortunately, shit gets around in small towns. Inevitably, if Craig and I went someplace even just holding hands, there would be somebody around that knows his parents, and that would bring it up to them. _Hey, so I saw your son today. He was holding hands with another boy…_ According to Craig, that is exactly the opposite of what he wants. And to be honest, I'll do just about anything to hang onto him.

I get this feeling of absolute panic in my gut when I think about not having Craig around. I know that it hasn't even been like, five months yet. But I stared at him for so long. Thought of him for so long. Built this up in my brain for so long.

"Er," I start, "I guess." I don't know what he wants me to say. If I told the truth, I'd probably just end up sounding about as creepy as I feel.

"Okay," he says. I wish that I was better at picking out his emotions. I can't tell what kind of "okay" that was. A disappointed okay, or an _okay_ okay, or what? Craig doesn't make any moves to indicate what he meant. He just fishes a pack of Trident spearmint gum out of the pocket of his ski jacket and pops a piece into his mouth.

So I say, "Okay." Have I fucked something up? I can't tell. I really, really don't want to fuck this up. And fucking Craig, he's just looking at me in his forever neutral, eerie way.

I start to mess with my thumbnail again. It has this little crack in it that I'm gradually making bigger, and now my nail is uneven, and I just want to rip the whole thing off. Craig steps closer to me and seizes my hand by the wrist, yanking me forward. He holds my hand up to eye level and comments, "You need to invest in some nail clippers. Seriously."

I try to come up with something to say, like a snappy comeback, but Craig kisses me. He tastes like smoke and spearmint. It's perfect. I melt into him and kiss right back.

I guess I didn't fuck up, after all.

**o.o.o.o**

After that, Craig and I don't have any more discussions about what the hell we were doing with each other. We revert right back to not giving a fuck and just going with the flow – which is essentially hanging out until we become unforgivable assholes to each other, or fucking. It's a pretty decent deal, at least decent enough that neither of us is discontent.

We're weirdly close, after our chat, though. Craig does things in public that he didn't do before. The difference isn't much, but I notice. We walk closer, close enough so that the backs of our hands brush against each other. At the lunch table we sit so that our thighs line up directly against one another. Sometimes he unconsciously pulls bits of string or lint off of my clothes, or tucks my tag in when it sticks up out of my shirt collar. And once, I caught him leaning closer to smell my shampoo (that time, I pointed out to Craig what he was doing).

I wonder if anybody notices that he does these things but me. I don't think Craig even knows that he's doing it.

But Kenny does, of course. I tell Kenny not to taunt Craig, but he does it anyway, because he thinks it's hilarious to get on Craig's nerves. It occurs to me that Kenny's favorite pastime has become making suggestive motions or faces across the lunch table or classroom – usually aimed at Craig, because Kenny knows that it'll downright piss Craig off, whereas I'm used to his antics enough that I'll only be mildly annoyed.

This is what Craig is bitching about right now.

It's the last day of March – and I'm kind of flipping shit because tomorrow it's going to be April and then it'll be May and then June and then it's going to be our fucking senior year. Then we have to leave South Park to make something of ourselves, or something stupid like that. I still don't know what I want to do. If it was up to me, I might just stay seventeen forever and do what I've always done – make teapots and watch anime instead of sleeping and watch movies with Craig and all the stuff that I'm not ready to give up.

"That fucker is going to tell somebody," Craig mutters. This is approximately the same thing that he's been muttering about for around five minutes. I wish that he would just eat his pizza. It's going to go cold at the rate that he's going.

I decide to just eat my own slice silently and continue internally worrying over senior year while he talks. Usually it's the other way around, me being very vocally worried about something and Craig being silent, but today is one of those weird switches. I guess I don't want to say anything about my own anxiousness because it seems stupid to worry about something that's so far ahead, and I know that that's exactly what Craig would tell me.

So I'll sit here and stew over whether my feelings are stupid or not.

Craig starts drumming his fingers on the back of my hand, finally taking a break to take a bite out of his pizza. I wonder if he should be touching my hand like that while we're in a crowded food court. Well, crowded for South Park. But it seems that pretty much the entire town is at the mall this weekend, probably because there isn't anything else to do around here. I can't remember why Craig and I decided to go out instead of staying in and watching a movie like we usually do.

"I don't understand how you can be friends with such an asshole," Craig goes on.

Oh, shit.

Craig's dad is coming out of the sporting goods store. He doesn't see us yet, thank god. He's with some buddy of his and I think they're talking about golf (seeing as aforementioned buddy is wheeling around a new set of golf clubs, and both men are looking at the set with interest).

"Craig," I say, withdrawing my hand.

He pulls my hand back and keeps playing with it, going on, "How does it not bother you that –"

"Craig!" I half-shout.

Mr. Tucker is definitely looking at us now. His gaze follows Craig's arm down to where he's playing with my fingers still, and his brow furrows. I snatch my hand away and hiss, "Ngh – Craig! Your dad."

Craig turns his head.

He goes paler than I've ever seen him go before. Paler than when I came to visit him on Valentine's Day and he had strep throat. Paler than he was on the morning after Token's New Year's party and we both had epic hangovers. He doesn't say anything. He and his dad are staring at each other, and it's fucking scary. I have never seen a Tucker stare down before, and I hope to Christ that I never have to again.

Craig stands abruptly and walks away.

I'm left at the table alone.

And now Mr. Tucker is staring at me.

I veer and chase after Craig.

"What about our pizza?" I call after his retreating back, like that will bring him back to sit down.

This is the worst thing that could have happened today. A UFO could have crashed through the ceiling of the food court and killed us both, and this would still be worse. Jesus Christ. I mean, holy fucking Jesus Christ. Craig and I have both spent our entire time together worrying that this would happen. That we'd be caught. We were only touching hands, though. Maybe he could weasel his way out and make an excuse. I try to think of excuses that would make sense for this situation, but my mind is coming up blank. Nothing. But this wasn't my fault. I didn't _do_ anything. I run my panicked hands through my hair and pick up speed to pursue Craig.

He takes a sharp turn toward the restrooms. I burst in after him, but he's already locked himself in a stall. The stall furthest from the door.

That's my trick.

But I can see his shoes, so I know it's him. And I thank Christ that there is nobody else in the men's restroom. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. I bang on the stall door and say, "Let me in, asshole."

"Fuck off, you twitchy little shit," he snaps back.

"Hey!" I protest, because that is entirely uncalled for. I pester, "Ngh – I'm serious, man. Let me in."

"No."

Since he refuses to open the stall, I make an executive decision to crawl under and join him by force, instead. It's somewhat of a task because my arms and legs are so long and spindly. I bump my head against the bottom of the stall door and mutter a quiet, "Fuck," before wriggling my way all the way under and pulling my body up. I rub the tender spot on the back of my head and frown.

Despite not protesting during this maneuver, when I draw up onto my feet, Craig stares up at me sullenly and uncrosses his arms to flip me off. He expresses, "Dude. What the fuck. What if I was taking a shit."

"Well, you're not," I respond tartly, "And it's not like I haven't seen what's down there, anyway. Jesus." I probably shouldn't have said this. I know I'm only doing it to provoke him, but I'm still pissed off about the "twitchy little shit" remark. No matter how true it is, he's not supposed to actually say it. Dickwad.

There's a moment of silence that Craig uses to his advantage, giving me a long, penetrating stare. He finally says, "Fuck off, Tweek."

"No," I state, feeling childish. But that's stupid. I'm not the one being childish today. Jesus Christ, we're rubbing off on each other. I sarcastically mock, "And today, the role of Tweek will be played by Craig, everybody."

"You're a shithead," he says.

"You're an asshole," I fire back.

I don't even know why we're fighting. I think Craig is pretending to be angry when he's actually upset. He does that a lot. He doesn't want to be sad so he fakes being pissed off instead. I decide that I'm not going to be angry anymore, even if he did call me a twitchy little shit. I take a few calming breaths in through my nose (they actually sort of sound like angry breaths that way, but oh well), and say, "It's gonna be okay."

"No, it isn't," Craig argues, but like mine, his voice has lowered down, and we're not shouting at each other anymore. His eyes lower to the floor. That's how I know that I was right about Craig being sad. Nobody can stare down better than Craig (except his dad, apparently).

There isn't really any place for me to sit in the narrow bathroom stall. I wish that there was, so I could wrap my arm around him, or at the very least do something that looks comforting. But no, I'm standing, crunched in, while he sits on the edge of the toilet bowl. Awkwardly, I reach down and pat his shoulder. It looks stupid, but it's the only thing that I could come up with. I repeat, "It'll be okay."

"No, it fucking won't," he argues again, "You don't get it. I'm gonna tear my whole family apart."

Jesus. That seems melodramatic, but considering the look that Thomas Tucker gave us, I wonder if there's legitimate merit to that statement. I'm suddenly overcome by the stabby-twisty-glittery feeling. I want to hug him. I want him to believe me when I say that things are going to be okay, even though they might not be. But then I'd be lying. And you shouldn't lie to people that you love.

Shit. My heart plummets down, until it feels so low that it could be in my shoes. I lift a hand up and start chewing on the end of my pointer finger. I hesitate for a moment while Craig and I both stare down at the bathroom floor. I feel like I'm going to crack into a million pieces when I say it, but I offer anyway, "We don't…um. We don't have to you know, be together. If that's what you want. And then it'll be okay, right?"

Craig's head jerks up and he says sharply, "No. Fuck no. I don't wanna…"

"Break up?" I say. I don't know if it would even count as a breakup, since I don't know if we're even technically together.

We both fall silent. I occupy myself by reading the graffiti while I gnaw on my fingers. Most of it is stupid, like _Call this number for a good time_, with the phone number crossed out. Or _Such-and-such has a micro-cock._ But there's one scrap of graffiti that my stomach lurches at, because it's perfect. I take my hand out of my mouth and wipe the spit on the side of my jeans, before pointing, "Look, man. Read that."

Craig turns look.

Right next to Craig's head, in thick, black sharpie, somebody has written,_ He who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away. – Raymond Hull_

Craig scans the writing. Then he scans it again. And he reads it a third time, like he doesn't quite understand.

After a few seconds, he stands. He puts his head on my shoulder and mutters, "Fuck everything."

I hold him in my arms for awhile and rub his back. I don't like when Craig's sad. He's almost never this sad. I know he thinks he has to choose between me and his family and I don't want that to be true. If it is true, I'm going to have to tell him that he doesn't have to choose me, no matter how many pieces I break into.

"Ngh – hey, Craig?"

"Mmph."

"You know, whatever you decide to do, I'll support it, okay?" I say.

"You're far more level-headed than people give you credit for," he comments into my shoulder.

"Maybe because I'm a twitchy little shit," I suggest.

Craig makes a frustrated noise and shoves me back against the stall door, but we both laugh. I think we're okay. Just to be sure, I press a small, experimental kiss against Craig's lips. When he kisses back, I know we're gonna be alright. Even if it's just for now, we're alright.

**o.o.o.o**

Craig doesn't make it back home until after dark. He wonders briefly if his parents decided to go out, since the only light on inside is the one in the kitchen. The front door isn't locked, though, and he lets himself in. He calls softly, "I'm home."

He needs to feed Stripe, but before he can get a foot on the stairs down to the basement, he hears his dad's voice from the kitchen.

"Craig, come here, please."

This awful feeling washes over him, like warm pool water. But Craig closes the door to the basement, turns around, and obeys.

His dad is sitting at the table, alone. That seems a lot worse to Craig than it would if both of his parents were sitting there together.

"What's this?" asks Thomas Tucker.

He holds up Craig's phone. Had Craig left it home? Shit. A million times _shit._ He just doesn't give a fuck about texting or any of that, so it's easy to leave the thing behind by accident. But he should have remembered. He should have. He's so fucking stupid.

The background picture on Craig's android is of him and Tweek.

**o.o.o.o**

**Well, good day, my fine readers. A round of applause and lots of love for my spectacular reviewers: KirstenTheDestroyer, NightmareMyLove, Reverse Psychology, Wendlekins, sasukesgothgangstababy, sweet-and-somber, TheAwesome15, WizerdBeards, R.R. Miaera, animegafan123, lucy sinclair, blobblab, Chasing Rabbits, patsu, and MarriePierre. **

**Okay. And I have to tell you guys this. Jesus of Suburbia is a fucking Creek anthem. Just look at the lyrics. The title of the story was originally going to come from Jesus of Suburbia instead of Please Don't Touch, but I changed my mind at the last second. But **_**seriously.**_** There are a lot of pieces of that song that inspired events in this fic. And pieces of the song that inspired events that haven't happened yet. ;D**

**Also, loyal to Green Day forever. Haters gon' hate. **


	14. Why Does My Heart Go On Beating?

**Chapter Track: The End of the World – Skeeter Davis**

**TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm**

I leave for school on Monday feeling pretty damned good. I haven't had such a good morning in awhile – it started with strong, black coffee, homemade strawberry waffles with buttermilk syrup, my kinda-sorta-maybe boyfriend not being mad at me, and a to-go cup with more delicious brew. It doesn't even bother me when my mom plays "The Forties on Four" radio station on the drive school, and we listen to a bunch of Vera Lynn and crooners in between.

Essentially, I'm off in my own little world. Craig doesn't meet me at our usual spot outside of the school, but he's late sometimes – because of Ruby, he says. I just stick my headphones in my ears and listen to the mix that he made me for Valentine's Day, while enjoying a before-school cigarette.

It's hard to believe that I'm still in a good mood after yesterday – I had to work and Bebe was having a field day playing April Fool's jokes on me. It began with pretending that the espresso machine had broken, and ended with pretending that she'd lost her set of keys and that we'd need to call a manager. I wish I wasn't so fucking gullible. I fell for every single trick that she played. But still, I walked away that night feeling all nice, because _Craig_.

After we left the men's restroom at the South Park mall, he'd calmed down. We went bowling with Clyde and Token and Red later in the evening, where we ate like, ten tons of those fake but really delicious nachos to replace the pizzas that we'd abandoned. We got our asses handed to us be Red – it turns out that she's a champion bowler and is a part of a professional team and everything.

Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. I feel like puberty hit Red like it's not supposed to hit people at all. Instead of becoming awkward and acne-ridden, she just graduated to a level of badass that isn't even fair. It's hardly a surprise that Token would like her the way he does. If I was at all straight (I'm not, not even a little bit), I'd probably be crushing on her. If long, red hair wasn't enough, she just has this confidence that none of us do. Except maybe Token. That's probably why they fit together so well. They walk around like they're the greatest thing to happen to this planet, but it's like they don't know. Seriously, fucking humble people. They make the rest of us look bad. I mean, Christ, I'm not good at much, but when I am good at something, I become a bit of an egomaniac (until it's subject to criticism, and then I just sort of collapse).

Craig hates when people mention when we're dating, still. Or even hint at it. Clyde kept making little snide jokes here and there during our bowling excursion, mostly bowling puns – things about pins and balls or whatever. By the end of the night, Craig had escalated from his reliable middle finger to smacking the back of Clyde's head. That turned out to be far more effective than flipping him the bird.

Nevertheless, I won't lie to you. I don't understand why we have to pretend that the _thing_ between me and Craig is some huge hush-hush secret anymore, at least around friends. Token and Red and Clyde have already proven themselves to be appropriately close-mouthed when they need to be. Bowling puns about sex aside, all three of them seem really supportive of Craig, like Kenny and Bebe are to me. I don't understand.

Thinking of this does put a little bit of a damper on my fine mood, as I smother the smoldering end of my cigarette into the dirt. But maybe…maybe things won't be as bad as he think they will.

Right? Yeah. I'll keep telling myself that, even though I know very well what the expression on Thomas Tucker's face, when we saw him at the mall. Anger at first, maybe, but then, embarrassment. It kills me to see that. It kills me because it kills Craig. Seriously, fuck Mr. Tucker thinking that his son is embarrassment. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ. How can a guy so generally decent, like Mr. Tucker, just turn around and be embarrassed because his son is gay? What the actual fuck?

I mean, they're not a family of upstanding citizens, but whose family is? My parents are open-minded and sometimes they give money to homeless people and stuff, but we're still dysfunctional as fuck. My mom still goes manic and makes more food than any of us can eat. My dad still gets quiet when he's angry and won't talk to us about it for days. And me, just, fucking me. I still throw temper tantrums like I'm two and have my mom make me tea in my plastic tea set. How is it that we're more okay than Craig's family? I don't understand.

The bell rings while I'm grabbing my books out of my locker.

"Shit," I mutter, and slamming the locker door shut, I take off down the hallway.

I didn't actually have the time to smoke this morning, and maybe I shouldn't have. Smoking alone is sometimes a bad idea for me, because when I'm alone, I get into my own head. There's no Craig to say, _Calm down_, no Kenny to go, _Cool your tits, Tweek, it's gonna be fine_. Even the company of the goth kids is better than being by myself sometimes. My celebratory "shit's alright" cigarette turned into a contemplative "what if shit isn't as alright as I think?" cigarette.

I make it to class a minute and a half late and out of breath. Nobody even looks up when I come skidding into the classroom, the soles of my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as I lose momentum. Kenny has one end of a broship bracelet taped down to his desk and is already braiding it absently, despite the fact that it's the first period of the day. Stan and Kyle are passing a note and snickering to themselves (Kyle is trying to smother his laughter, but failing). Bebe has her face in her hands and is concentrated on blowing as large a bubblegum bubble as possible.

And Craig. Craig has his headphones in, and his face is on his desk. As I slide into the vacant seat beside him, I can hear Rammstein blaring into his ears. I asked once why he listens to metal and industrial and heavier shit at school, and then like, folk and indie when he's at home, and he said it's because he hates school and needs to mellow out when he gets home. But since kinda-sorta-maybe dating him, I noticed him listening to the chill shit at school, too. I think he just listens to heavy music when he wants to forget that there are people around.

Craig hates people most of the time. I don't blame him. I hate people too. Just, maybe in a different way. He hates that a lot of people exist, I just hate when they try to touch me or engage me in conversation like they're doing a charity by talking to the weird kid.

My books make a loud clapping noise when they hit my desk. I see Craig's head slide slightly over. He doesn't move his arms out of the way, but I think he's peeking at my shoes. I put my hand down low, past the edge of my plastic orange chair, and wave. He doesn't react. Bad day, I guess.

Oh, shit. I never did ask him if everything went okay with his dad.

I open my notebook as our teacher drones on and rip out a page from the back. I scrawl in my bad handwriting: _Are you okay? Did you talk to your dad?_

I slip it to him underneath the gap between his arm and the desk. He doesn't move much, just barely lifting his head, before writing a very short answer.

All his reply says is: _No._

No to what? No, he's not okay? Or no, he didn't talk to his dad? Maybe it's both.

I feel somebody tap my shoulder. I glance behind me – it's Clyde. He points at my note silently and shakes his head.

_What's going on?_ I mouth.

Clyde indicates to the paper again. I pass it behind me.

Yeesh. His handwriting is even worse than mine. It's like fucking wingdings, and it's just barely legible.

_His dad is pissed he freaked out or some shit on saterday he called me and sounded like shit u mite not wanna bother him k_

I read Clyde's run-on sentence several times before it registers. Why didn't Craig call _me_? What the fuck happened? I scribble out a response to Clyde, a plea to know what happened. How bad could it have gotten? I know that when they're legit, Tucker fights get vicious – Craig told me so. But they've never gone so far as to come to physical blows. Unless being gay was that bad to Mr. Tucker. Is it? Anytime Thomas Tucker has been described to me, he's just sounded stubborn over old views he was raised with, not an all-out abuser or anything.

I can't help the panic and worry that I feel, anyway. Jesus Christ. I guess I didn't realize how much I've come to care about Craig. I even feel a little possessive, angry that anybody would hurt the person that belongs to me.

The worry in my gut deepens when Clyde passes back the note and it says _not my place 2 say. _

What does he mean, it's not his place to say? I'm Craig's boyfriend, for fuck's sake. Who cares whether or not we've actually said it's "official" or whatever. We fuck each other and we get each other presents. Boyfriends. Easy.

So when class comes to a close and Craig drags himself out of his seat, I follow him to his locker. He sort of pretends that I'm not there, or maybe he doesn't notice me. I can't tell. I want it to be the latter but I'm inclined to believe that it's the first.

So I rip out his headphones.

"Ngh – what's going on?"

He sighs, "Give those back, Tweek." He sounds tired. Really, really tired.

"Fuck you. What's going on?" I demand again.

When he finally turns around to look at me, he looks like complete and utter shit. Not like the kind of shit he looked like when he had strep throat on Valentine's Day, but the kind of shit you look like when you're emotionally exhausted. And really, he has to be _exhausted_, because it takes a lot to get emotion to actually read on Craig's face, no matter what he's feeling on the inside. His eyes look heavy and he's frowning. I don't think he knows that he's frowning, no, he's just doing it. I try to think of a word to describe the way he looks, other than "like shit."

Crumpled. He looks _crumpled. _Like he's a piece of lined paper that somebody ripped out of a spiral notebook and crunched up in their hands.

Shit.

Craig makes a move for the headphones, and instead of handing them back, I hastily stuff them in my pocket.

"Goddamnit, Tweek," he says irritably.

"What is going –" I begin again.

Craig cuts me off, "I don't want to talk about it, okay. Just give me my headphones back."

I start to feel desperate. Fuck. Maybe I've gotten too used to being spoiled with how willing Craig is to spill out feelings he doesn't normal talk about, but will talk about post-coitally. I place a protective hand over the pocket of my jeans that contain his headphones and say, "Please." And it sounds stupid when it comes out of my mouth, just that one word. I sound pathetic and scared and everything I hate about myself.

"It was exactly what I thought would happen. Now give me my fucking headphones back," Craig snaps out. He holds out his hand expectantly.

"Ngh – well, um, aren't you like, gonna dump me or something?" I whisper it, because there are people milling all around us and even though they all know about our _thing_, Craig apparently still wants us to pretend that it's a secret.

"I don't know," Craig states, "I don't know what I'm doing. Just give me my fucking headphones already."

I obey. I don't know. I still want to scream and yell and demand an explanation out of him, demand what happened, demand why he's all crumpled up. Craig snatches the headphones from me before I can change my mind, slams his locker closed, and walks away.

_He doesn't know._

That doesn't make me feel any more comforted at all. What does that even mean? God, fuck, I know, it's obvious. It means that he literally doesn't know what to do. That's not Craig, though. Craig is always certain of himself. Even if he's nervous about something, he's still certain. I'm the one that never knows what the flying fuck I'm doing. _I'm_ the one that has no sense of stability.

But Christ, I brought that turbulence into his life. And up until now it's been funny and awesome to watch him deal with things that are out of line of experience and that don't match with his routine. It delighted me to fuck with his routine. But now I feel like I've uprooted more than a silly routine, but his entire world. And I feel like shit, such shit that I can't quite describe just how awful that feeling is. I feel wrecked up inside. I feel like I'm gonna throw up.

I don't, though. I don't throw up. I just pick at my hands, grab my shit from my locker, and arrive late to my next class.

**o.o.o.o**

When lunchtime arrives, I stand at the front of the cafeteria. I'm not sure what's going on, and so I'm not sure if I'm still supposed to sit with Craig. I feel like an idiot for the headphones thing. When shit doesn't go my way, I always revert to acting like a child. It's effective, I guess, but that doesn't stop me from being embarrassed about it later.

But Clyde sees me, standing with my Chinpokomon lunchbox like an idiot, and waves, "Tweek! Join the party!"

Reluctantly, I do so, but when I arrive at the table and set my lunchbox down in my usual spot beside Craig, it doesn't really _seem_ like a party to me. Clyde actually appears more serious, now, and Craig, though his headphones are not in his ears, is completely silent.

So, I follow suit, and decide not to speak as I unhook the latches on my lunchbox. I don't feel like eating, but I set out the contents anyway, sticking the straw in my juice box, removing my peanut butter and banana sandwich from its Ziploc bag, and unfolding the yellow napkin that was sitting on the bottom (today my mom's napkin message reads, "You are the apple of my eye!" and she's drawn an apple with a smiley face on it below the text).

I feel something brush against my thigh and I look over sharply.

It's just Craig. He moves his knuckles back and forth against my jeans lightly. Does this mean that we're not fighting anymore? Shit, I don't even know if we were fighting.

"Ngh – you okay?" I ask, under my breath, just in case nobody's supposed to hear what we're saying.

Craig doesn't look up at me. He stares at his hand, instead, as he continues to run it over my leg. He mumbles, "I don't fucking know. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Shit."

"Need a smoke?" I suggest. I know I sure as fuck could use one. Cigarettes have become today's solution for everything.

"Ugh, yes," he says, standing so quickly that he drags the table backwards.

I follow, and announce, "Hey Clyde, um, tell Kenny that he can have my lunch, okay?"

"Sure thing, bro," Clyde tosses us a suggestive wink. I roll my eyes. Craig lifts his middle finger.

When we walk outside, instead of settling down with the other smokers – one half of the Goth kids and Heidi, currently – Craig strides right past them. He walks toward the intersection ahead, away from the school, and further than I've ever dared to walk during the school hours.

I ask, "Wait, where are we going?"

"Dunno," Craig shrugs. I clumsily take out my American Spirits as we walk, and offer him one. He mutters a thanks, and takes out his own lighter to light it.

"Um, are we ditching?" I ask, "What if we get caught?"

Craig considers this, puffing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. He says, "Yeah. Yeah, let's ditch. Fuck this shit. And calm your shit. We won't get caught, because nobody gives a damn."

Okay. I try and swallow my concern about getting caught and becoming a truant. Of all the things I've done, I've never ditched class before. I know that I might be alone in this – except for maybe Kyle. I don't think he ever ditches either. And fine, I'm a little upset that I'm leaving my Chinpokomon lunchbox behind. I love that lunchbox, okay.

Despite having my longer legs, Craig walks much more quickly than I do. This is partially because my hands are cold and I'm struggling to light my own cigarette. So, Craig stops and takes his lighter back out to help me.

I take a drag and say, "Thanks," but he's already marching away.

"Damn it," I complain, "Ngh – Craig, what are we doing?"

He puts an arm around my back and tugs me in, placing a smoky kiss on my lips. I make a muffled noise of surprise, and he tugs me in closer. I'm extremely confused, and I think that I'm confused because Craig is confused. He draws away and takes a drag off of his cigarette. He replies, "Let's find someplace private."

Alright, I definitely know what he's getting at there. I say, "But, uh, are you sure?" I know he isn't. I keep on, "What happened? You're acting really weird, man."

"Fuck," Craig mutters, and he kicks a rock across the street. We're nearing Main Street, now. I'm kind of worried that one of our parents will see us. I don't want to get caught skipping school. I also don't want to chicken out and leave Craig here. I've never seen him this fucked up over something before. Seeing him this upset is making me upset. He goes on, "It wasn't that bad. He just said what I thought he would."

Didn't Craig expect his dad to say awful things, though?

"He said I was an embarrassment to the family," Craig finally mumbles.

"Jesus Christ! That's fucking ridiculous," I say, trying to sound reassuring. But it's next to impossible for me to sound reassuring. I just sound as stupid and anxious as ever, because thinking of a family member saying something like that makes me feel even stupider and more anxious than usual. I pat Craig's shoulder, but he shrugs me off. _Don't touch me_ is a long way away from the two seconds ago _fuck me_.

"He said it's just a phase," Craig goes on.

I scratch the back of my neck and offer, "Well, uh, who knows, man? Maybe it is. Sexuality is weird." I say this despite the fact that I'm confident that Craig is 100% gay. But I don't know what else to say to bolster his confidence. I ask, "What about your mom? Ngh – what did she say?"

Craig shakes his head. He flicks his cigarette butt into the street and answers, "She wasn't there. She was at her scrapbooking club or whatever. And my dad told me that he'd ground me if I told her about all this. Fuck this. Let's go to your house."

We walk in silence most of the walk there. We don't walk as close to each other as we typically do, either. There's at least a foot and a half of space between us, and it makes me uncomfortable being so far away from Craig. I'm just so fucking confused. I've said it a million times, but when I try to think, try to work it out, that's all that my brain comes up with. _I'm confused. _I realize that Craig's the one that's fucked up right now, which means that I need to be level-headed. I am having a hell of a time trying to make myself levelheaded. But I'm giving it my goddamn _all_, because I'm trying to do it for Craig.

I'm worried that my mom will be home and that she'll ask me what I'm doing home when I should be at school (I don't think she would care, actually, but I worry anyhow). But, when I use the spare key (_not_ under the mat, but in the potted plant hanging beside our house number) to open the door, she isn't there.

When Craig sees that we're alone, he kisses me again. But god, his kiss isn't sure, and he's not sure of anything, and as much as I would love to continue kissing him, I can't. I break away and hold him slightly back. I explain, "I don't want you to do anything that you regret, okay? We can watch a movie. I'll even, um, watch a scary one if you want. As long as I don't have to look at it."

Craig untenses a little. He breaks from my gaze and massages his temples, before saying, "Nah. Not horror. I don't want you to fuck with your hands."

I'm relieved. I don't know why I should be relieved that my kinda-sorta-maybe boyfriend agrees with me thinks that kissing me might be a bad decision and watching a movie together may be the better option, but that beautiful feeling of relief washes over me in waves as Craig sifts through our family's DVD collection (it's no place near as extensive as his, but his family just movie people, it seems). My family is actually kind of bad at watching movies, especially together. My mom and I can't pay attention for more than a few minutes, but my dad will make us sit there and talk about the movie like he's a film critic, except that he uses metaphors about coffee when he's describing why he likes or dislikes something.

Craig ends up choosing _Chocolat_ – it's my mom's favorite movie, and one of the only ones that she'll agree to sit through. I tell Craig this. He says that my mom has good taste in movies.

We don't sit like we usually do. Or at least, we don't start out that way. I wrap myself in a blanket that my mom crocheted and take one end of the sofa, while Craig kicks off his shoes and takes the other side. This is normal. This is good. This is calm. Right? Right.

Until about ten minutes into the damned movie, and somehow I've migrated from my corner of the couch and onto him and our faces are latched together. I'm not sure how in the fuck this happened, but we're both frustrated and anxious and scared and terribly, _terribly_ horny.

I guess it shouldn't surprise me that a little over an hour later, we find ourselves naked and tangled together.

Usually, at this point after sex, I'm at most calm and collected. Instead, this sex has served only to bring me down to an acceptable, everyday level of anxiety. And in place of peeling the skin on my hands, I run my fingers back and forth over Craig's leg hair, so it sticks up, and then I smooth it back down. It is possibly very annoying.

"It's gonna be gone tomorrow," he says.

"Your _leg_ is going to be gone tomorrow?" I exclaim.

Craig snorts. He says, "No, dumbass. My first swim meet is tomorrow. I have to shave everything."

I blink at him and say, "_Everything_?"

"Oh, Jesus, Tweek. You're such a perverted asshole sometimes," he rolls his eyes, "Not there." He appears to be a lot calmer than I am, and I don't get it. How can he be levelheaded when the whole world is falling apart? I mean, he just slept with a dude and he doesn't want to like dudes because his dad thinks it's embarrassing that he likes dudes and –

"Tweek," he states, "Chill."

I can't _chill_, but I pretend to. I lay my ear flat on his chest so that I can hear his heartbeat, and keep playing with the hair on his legs to occupy my shaking hands. It helps a little when Craig runs his fingers through my hair, like he's petting a dog or something. It loosens me up. I'm still on edge, but if he's not, then maybe we're alright.

And then he says, "Would you come? You know. To my swim meet."

Craig has never invited me to one of his sporting events before. I'm strangely flattered, even if I do have absolutely no interest in sports whatsoever. So I respond, "Ngh – um, yeah. I'd love to." Even though I don't care for sports, I do want to show Craig support in any way that I can manage to handle. Plus, swimming has the added bonus of Craig wearing less clothing than usual.

That's when we part ways. After Craig has gotten dressed again, of course. I just put my boxers back on. Craig says that the pre-swim shaving is a big deal, and he'll probably end up having to clean out the shower drain. I laugh at first, because it sounds like he's joking, but then he tells me that he's serious and that he's clogged it every year before swim since he started as a freshman.

Craig says that he'll just walk home, and so I walk him to the front door and kiss him before he leaves.

Oh Jesus. This is so fucked up. I still have no idea what's going on. Craig has gone back to acting like we're just fine, but we're not "just fine." I know it's not just me that's completely screwed up, because he still looks crumpled. Perhaps a little less so. He looks more like that same crunched up piece of notebook paper, except that it's like somebody has unrolled him and tried to smooth him out on the edge of a desk.

The last thing that Craig says to me before he heads down the sidewalk is, "And quit chewing on your hands."

**o.o.o.o**

Have I ever mentioned that I truly loathe the phrase "get a good night's sleep"? I can't fucking stand those words. I hate them because it's the kind of thing that people always say when you're stressed and wrecked up beyond belief. They tell you that when you wake up that it will be better. What these fuckers don't have, though, is a solution for people that can't sleep for more than two hours at a time.

I try, believe me, I try to sleep. I try to take the advice of every stupid fucker that has told me that things will feel better when I wake up.

Instead, that morning, everything feels worse.

I feel an overwhelming sense of doom when my mom drops me off at school, and I spend the first half of first period outside in the fifty degree weather, chain smoking with Henrietta. She looks about as shitty as I feel, but neither of us asks if the other is okay, and I'm not sure either of us cares about the other one's problems, anyway. We just light each other's cigarettes and brood, until I decide that I've done enough wallowing and need to attend class.

Craig and I don't have classes together on B days, just lunch. That means that I need to calm myself down before lunch period. I don't want to stress Craig out before his meet today with North Park. But me being myself, I'm just general bad juju to be around if you want to keep confident...or if you want to be anything resembling normal. I have no idea why Craig decided to still hang around with me, because clearly, I have destroyed everything stable in his life.

Fortunately, I have my ceramics two class before lunch. I make the decision to do absolutely no work on the project that I am supposed to be doing, and instead, opt to play with the play and make it into fun shapes. Mrs. Ferruggia understands, though. She doesn't even say a word to me, which is nice. She sees that I am teetering on the edge, and if I need to make ugly, misshapen giraffes out of clay to make myself feel slightly more stable, all the power to me.

When the bell for lunch rings, my worries are split into seeing Craig and if my Chinpokomon lunchbox is safe.

I arrive at the cafeteria and Craig looks almost okay. He still seems off, but I guess your dad telling you that you're an embarrassment to the family because of who you are will make you a little off.

When I slide into place beside him, Clyde places my metal lunchbox on the table.

I cry, "Oh Jesus, thank you!" and yank it into my arms. I blush when everybody at the table looks at me, but fuck them, because their lunchboxes are clearly not nearly as awesome as mine. If they were, they would understand my relief at having it returned to me unscathed.

"I hate shaving," Craig remarks absently, and I notice that he can't stop scratching at his legs.

Clyde laughs, "More like shearing. I hope you donated the wool."

Token contributes, "Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full."

Okay, that is kind of funny. I give a cautious chuckle, and as Craig flips off Clyde and Token, he lifts his other middle finger at me. I just laugh harder, and the knots all tangled up inside me sag a little bit, giving me a little more room to feel less anxious. And when I start absently peeling at the skin around my cuticles, Craig knocks my hands apart and laces his fingers through mine.

It's going to be okay.

Okay.

Maybe his dad decided that it's okay that Craig is gay.

Or maybe he didn't.

Maybe Craig just has his mind on today's swim meet.

I think that Craig senses that I'm overwhelmed, because he squeezes my hand while he pops a chicken nugget into his mouth and listens to Clyde talk about his plans to seduce Sally (When I think of Clyde, one of the last things that comes to mind is seduction, but he's being all cute about liking her, and I don't want to be an asshole and ruin his good mood).

I'm glad that he's here to keep my feet on the ground. I am wobbling dangerously close to collapsing in my own mind, but Craig is helping. He might not help forever, but he's helping right now, and I try to concentrate on that. I try to think of how warm his hand is, and how much my hands have healed in the past couple of months because he's been around to remind me not to treat them like my personal chewing toys.

I just have to last until his swim meet is over, that's all.

…Which proves harder than I thought it would be. I resort to crappy school coffee to keep my head clear. We're not supposed to take food or drinks past the cafeteria, but my teachers let me keep my short to-go cup of crappy coffee. Sometimes I think that they don't want to let me break the rules that everybody else has to follow, but that they've been instructed to allow the crazy kid to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Kenny senses that I'm off, that I have been since yesterday. In math, he shoves Heidi out of her assigned seat next to mine, and swipes it. Her eyes narrow and she looks like she wants to argue with him, but then she realizes that Kenny's assigned seat is next Wendy, and so swapping isn't such a bad thing. Our math teacher is as blind as bat – I don't think that she'll notice.

Kenny digs in the pocket of his ratty orange parka and presents me with a new bracelet. This one is green and hot pink.

"Thanks," I mumble, slipping it onto my skinny wrist (I'm so thin that I don't even have to bother untying it and retying it) with the other three of his bracelets that I wear. I almost never take them off, and whether that is out of friendship or laziness, I couldn't tell you. It's probably laziness, because sometimes I forget that they're there and I'll wear them in the shower.

"You okay, dude?" he asks, though his voice is smushed by his bandana.

I shrug.

"So you're not okay. You wanna hang out after school?" he asks.

"Can't," I reply, "Craig wants me to go to his swim thing today."

If I didn't know better, I'd think that Kenny looks a little disappointed. He nudges me with his elbow and teases, "You'll take any excuse to see him naked, won't you?"

"Ngh – fuck you," I complain, but Kenny acting like normal Kenny gives me boost in mood. Craig not being himself has really started to fuck with me. I just want Craig to be Craig, and stop being confused and kind of emotional. I wouldn't tell Craig that, of course. It seems way too asshole-ish (even for me) to tell Craig that he should go back to never ever talking about how he feels. But I got used to that. It was normal. Now things aren't normal at all, even if everybody pretends that they are.

We mess around for the rest of class, passing notes and playing tic-tac-toe. It isn't that we usually pay attention, because we don't. Typically, I at least attempt to pretend that I'm listening, but fuck math. Craig is the one that's good at math.

When the bell rings, I wonder if I should go straight to the pool, or if I should find Craig by his locker first or something. I realize quickly, though, that athletes get out of their classes early on days that they have competitions, and so he's probably already there. I wish that my brain wasn't so scattered today. I wish I wasn't having so much trouble keeping all my thoughts in one place. Instead I feel like I'm chasing them around.

I unload most of the stuff from my messenger bag into my locker, before heaving it over my shoulder and walking to the corner of the school where the pool is. I feel weird walking in this direction. I never visit this nook of South Park High. In addition to the pool, the theatre department is tucked away back here, and I will never, _ever_ have anything to do with theatre. The mere notion of the kinds of stage fright I would face makes me feel sick.

I stand in front of the double metal doors to the school's pool. Inside, I hear water splashing and animated talking and a whistle blowing. When I look through the thin, rectangular window to see inside, I see a miniature set of bleachers already occupied by people that look like parents, and some other kids that I recognize.

A couple of sophomore girls push past me and open the door, giggling over something as they take a seat. I glance behind me, hesitating, and follow.

I feel weird sitting all by myself. I hold my hands in my lap and try desperately not to pick at them. I scan the crowd and catch the eye of Ruby. She's sitting with their parents. When she catches me looking, she waves softly.

"Tweek," says somebody from behind me. "Hey, Tweek."

I look back. Directly above me by four rows is Stan, also sitting alone. He waves a little more enthusiastically than Ruby did and says, "Sit with me, dude." I don't even care for Stan that much, but I'm glad that I have somebody to sit with now. I pick up my messenger back and clamber through the clumps of other people, plopping down beside him.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"Oh, uh, Kyle and I are hanging out after he's done here. I figured it would just be easier to come and watch him kick North Park's ass," Stan says. He gives me an easygoing smile. I guess Stan is okay. He's never been mean to me and he's given me rides to school before. And when he's nice, it feels like he's genuinely nice.

The whistle blows loudly, and the swimmers in the pool get out, walking back to the start. I can tell which one is Craig. He doesn't really have his tan anymore, and he's significantly less hairy than I'm accustomed to, but I've seen him sans clothes enough that I'd recognize his chest anywhere – which is what I have to use to recognize him by, since he's wearing a swim cap and goggles with the rest of the team.

Stan stands up and cups his hands around his mouth and yelling, "Go South Park!" I can practically see Kyle rolling his eyes from here.

I don't really get what's going on other than mostly-naked dudes swimming. Like I said, I don't follow sports, not even the Olympics. As far as I can tell, they're doing different kinds of swimming with each round. The only time I really know when to be loud with Stan is when I see Craig's name on the light-up board mounted on the wall, and his time beside it. Craig isn't as fast as Kyle, but he's beating most of the North Park kids' times.

And to be fair, I don't think that Stan knows what's happening either, I think he just enjoys cheering obnoxiously for his best friend.

And then it's over – South Park seems to have beaten North Park, though just barely. I have the feeling that our swim team isn't actually all that great, that in the scheme of things, we're just okay. Stan and I climb down the bleachers together to wait outside of the locker room.

Craig's family is waiting there for him, too. I wonder if maybe I'm not supposed to wait for Craig. I look over at Ruby questioningly, and she shrugs. I mean, they know that I'm friends with Craig. But I still don't know what happened between Craig and his dad, other than Mr. Tucker calling Craig an embarrassment and telling him that he was just going through a phase, which he definitely isn't.

But then, Craig seemed okay with keeping our _thing_ together?

"Hey, you okay?" Stan shoots me a concerned look.

But before I can answer, Craig is coming out of the locker room. He's holding his hat in his hands and his hair is damp. I'm so relieved to see him.

So relieved that I leap forward without thinking and wrap my arms around him. His dad puts me on edge so fucking much. I'm just glad that I have Craig to hug me – except wait.

He isn't hugging me.

I mean, that's okay, he usually takes a second to hug me back anyway. But when I open one eye to see what he's doing, he's looking at his dad, who's looking at us.

Craig turns back to me. He puts his hands against my chest and for a second, I think that he's going to tell his dad _fuck you_ and hug me back. He doesn't. That isn't what he does at all.

Craig shoves me. Hard. He shoves me back so hard that I fall back onto the cement ground.

He stares down at me with this crumpled, evil expression masking his face and spits, "Don't touch me, you fucking _fag_."

The word "fag" echoes.

For a second, I think that I'm just in a nightmare. I lay on the hard ground and pinch arm and remind myself that it's scary because it's not real.

But I don't wake up.

Everybody in the pool room is silent. Until I hear Kyle Broflovski breathe, "Holy shit, dude."

It's real.

It's not a nightmare.

It's _for real._

It's real it's real it's real it's real it's real.

I stand up, kind of wobbly on my feet.

And I walk away. I wish I could have thought of something to say, but what do you say when the guy you've been seeing for the past six months just…does something like that?

_You fucking fag._

I roll those words over and over in my head like a movie reel. _You fucking fag._ Craig just said that to me. That really, actually happened. He pushed me on the ground. My head hurts. I feel like I want to throw up. I don't know what to do and I'm still trying to figure out if what happened really did happen. Maybe I hallucinated. Maybe I did hard drugs with Kenny and I'm having a bad trip. But I don't do hard drugs.

I'm out of the school.

_Did that happen?_

I'm on main street, walking toward my house.

_I think that actually happened._

I'm at my front door.

_That happened._

I open up the front door. I'm shaking everywhere. I want to vomit. I want to scream. The feeling where you need to cry but can't builds up in my chest like a big ball of phlegm. I close the door behind me, pressing my back straight up against it. For a moment, I scrape up the courage and call out weakly, "Mom?" Because maybe my mom can help. She'll make me tea. Or maybe coffee with Bailey's in it. She's going make it okay because that's what moms do. Moms fix things.

She doesn't respond.

I call her name again, but nothing comes.

It's Tuesday. It's grocery shopping day. Of course she isn't here.

I'm all alone.

I am all alone and there is nobody here for me. I have nobody.

That's when I finally cry. It doesn't sound like a usual cry. I'm heaving dry sobs and I can't breathe and I'm so _fucking angry. _I'm all alone and it's my fault. I'm the crazy kid. I'm weird. I'm a freak. I'm a psycho. And on top of all that, I'm a _fag. Fag fag fag fag fag._

That's what Craig called me.

I scream at the top of my lungs. I hope it's so loud that the neighbors hear me. I hope it's so loud that they call the police. I pick up the nearest object – a Swarovski crystal bowl filled by potpourri. I hurl it as hard as I can.

I hear a smash.

It crashes into a shelf of my mom's teacups. Fucking teacups. Fucking teacups fucking everywhere and all they do is break. She doesn't even _use _them. They're just there for decoration and to be broken. Well, fuck that. Fuck teacups that you don't even use. Fuck them and may they burn in hell. I climb up onto the sofa and sweep my arms across the shelf of teacups and smashed teacup bits. They crash all over. Some of them break, but most of them don't, they just fall onto the plush carpet.

I pick them back up at throw them at the wall, listening for a satisfying smashing noise to go with each toss of another stupid fucking teacup. _Oh, this one is from 1930. _Fuck you, teacup. _I made this one in fourth grade. _Die die die die die. I smash them all, crunching the bigger bits under my shoes and grinding them into the carpet. I hate you.

There's one left, only one. I find it fallen, safely in one piece, on my dad's armchair. I don't throw this one. I bang it up against the wall myself. The shards of china dig into my hands. Fucking ugly hands. They're the bane of my existence. I wish I could just cut them off. I take a jagged piece of bloody china, digging it out from where the wall pressed it into my palm. I slice in the opposite direction of the other wound, ripping off the few Band-Aids I had left. My hands were mostly healed. Craig got me to stop.

Craig called me a fag.

Craig doesn't care about me, just like nobody else cares about me. I'm a freak. I always have been. How could I let myself be so stupid? How could I let myself believe that I could be anything else but the psycho kid? How I could I believe that anybody would want to be friends with me, that anybody would want to love me? Because they don't. I was stupid, stupid and naïve to believe that you could love somebody like me.

I use the shard of china to slice up the back of my hand, pressing as deeply as I can, so it hurts like I deserve. I'm so stupid. Blood is going everywhere now, but it's not enough.

My fucking ugly hands. I wish they would just go away. Maybe if I didn't have ugly hands, maybe Craig would have actually liked me. Maybe he wouldn't have had to pretend.

I slam a bloody fist onto the stereo, crying so hard I can't see.

It starts playing the music that my mother left in there, _The Essential Skeeter Davis. _

The song is tragically fitting. It's the song my mom plays when she gets really, really sad. I know every word. I sing along as I switch the shard of teacup and start slicing up my uninjured hand.

"_Why does the sun go on shining?  
>Why does the sea rush to shore?<br>Don't they know it's the end of the world,  
>'Cause you don't love me anymore?"<em>

I hate this song. Why am I singing this song? I rip a big, bloody 'X' into the back of my right hand.

I feel woozy. The white carpet is all red now. My hands are bleeding so much that I can't see the color of my skin anymore. I scrape more little 'X's into my right hand and cry. I scream and sob at the top of my lungs. I kick the coffee table. It falls onto its side, fanning old issues of _Good Housekeeping_ out over bits and pieces of trashed tea cups.

There are spots at the edges of my vision. I know what that means. It means that I going to faint. But I can't. I can't faint until I cut off my ugly hands.

I keep singing as I tear into my skin. My words are all garbled because I'm crying. I'm crying like I've never cried in my life. _Fag. _It's such a horrible word. _Fag fag fag. _I never want to hear that word again.

"_Why does my heart go on beating?  
>Why do these eyes of mine cry?<br>Don't they know it's the end of the world?  
>It ended when you said goodbye."<em>

I start swaying on my feet, but I keep chopping at my hands. They need to go away now.

I think I hear a gasp.

I fall backwards, dropping the blood-covered bit of china. I waver from side to side as I try to sit, but I can't, and so I decide that it feels better to lie down.

"Oh my God, baby, what have you done?" My mom is hovering over me. She drops the reusable grocery bags that she's holding and kneels at my side.

"Hi, Mom," I say, trying to smile and pretend that it's okay. I don't want her to know what happened. I have to smile for my mom because I don't want to make her sad.

There are two of her now. How did that happen? My eyes are all watery and swimmy. I reach up and try to wipe the tears off of my face, but I just swear blood into my eyes. Christ, I'm bleeding a lot. It's everywhere. I hate blood. I hate it so much. And there's so much of it. I didn't even know I had that much blood in my body. I'm almost fascinated.

My mom is crying. I can't really see her face.

"Sorry I made you cry, Mom," I whisper.

And everything finally fades. It fades, and I finally feel alright.

**o.o.o.o**

**Thank you very, very much to my reviewers: ObanesHarvest, Cynical B. Itch, NightmareMyLove, Mallory, WizerdBeards, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, MariePierre, Reverse Psychology, PWN3D, blobblab, Andy, and lidd.**

**I feel like I don't reiterate to you guys enough that you are wonderful people, and you help me improve my writing and encourage me every day. And don't think I don't notice when you disappear – because I totally do. ;)**

**Note: Exactly what happened between Craig and his dad will be laid out, just not yet.**


	15. Please Destroy Me This Way

**Chapter Track: Destroy Everything You Touch – Ladytron**

The car ride home from Craig's swim meet is painfully silent. Craig remedies this by sticking his headphones in and scrolling through his iPod for music, but he can't find anything to fix the guilt. He didn't…he didn't mean to. It had just _happened_. He didn't even realize what he was doing until the words escaped his mouth and Tweek was on the ground.

The worst part, though, was that Tweek didn't say anything. Seconds after he realized what he had done, Craig wanted Tweek to get back up, to shove him back, to call him an asshole like Tweek always did. But he didn't. Tweek just walked away. He didn't say a word. He didn't shout or scream. He just shook like a leaf and left. And that, that was the most terrible thing about it all.

Either that, or the look on Ruby's face when Craig turned to his family and said, "Let's go home."

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Just, _fuck._

How is he supposed to fix this? He's sure that Tweek will forgive him. Tweek always forgives him after they fight. But this is different. It feels different, and it makes Craig's stomach tangle into knots.

He just hadn't known what to do. Tweek would understand that, right? Shit, Tweek just shouldn't have fucking _hugged_ him in front of everybody. He should have known better. Christ, Craig's dad was standing right fucking there. Why didn't Tweek take a goddamned second to think about what he was doing before he did it?

_Hypocrite._

That's unfair. Craig knows it's unfair. He knows that he didn't think about what he was doing, either. But he was surprised. He didn't expect for Tweek to fucking tackle him or whatever the fuck Tweek thought that he was doing. Tweek knew, and still knows, that Craig is on thin ice with his dad. So Craig didn't tell him everything that happened. So what? Craig had told him enough that Tweek should have realized that any physical contact between them in front of his dad was off limits. It should have been obvious.

And shit, Craig hadn't known that his parents were gonna show up to the swim meet. He wouldn't have told Tweek to come if he had known.

Craig desperately wants a cigarette, but he's been bumming them off of Tweek for the past couple of weeks because his mom flushed his Camels down the toilet when she found them. He doubts Tweek will speak to him after what just happened.

Oh God.

What is he gonna do now? How long is Tweek gonna be mad at him for this? He's gonna be pissed for at least a few more days. They'll make up, though. They always do.

Somehow this doesn't work in reassuring himself that it will be okay. He wonders if he might be wrong. He wonders if Tweek will stay mad forever. But Tweek can't do that. He can't stay mad forever. It isn't in his nature. He's a paranoid little shit, but he's always willing to forgive Craig for being a monumental dickhead. And today's dickheadedness was monumental indeed. But God _damn_ it all. He hadn't meant it.

Craig's brain had just short-circuited. There was his dad, watching, and then there was Tweek, and Tweek was hugging him, and all that was running through Craig's mind were the things that his dad had said three nights ago.

_No son of mine is a faggot._

Too late, Dad, because your son _is_.

_And even if you were a fag – which you're not, Craig, do you hear me? – you wouldn't be wasting your time on some psycho-fag who can't even go to the fucking bathroom without his mom helping him!_

That was cruel. Craig knew it was. Every one of his father's words slammed into him like knives, and when Craig didn't say anything to stand up for himself, or to more importantly stand up for Tweek, the knives just twisted deeper and deeper. And Craig just got quieter.

He doesn't want to be a disappointment, but he is. He's already a disappointment to his dad. The worst is that he doesn't quite understand why. He thinks he always knew that this would happen. He knew that first time he felt a twinge when he saw Tweek. For years he's known. Craig doesn't want to give up his family, though. He wants them to be happy. Sure, they're all pretty sarcastic to each other, and they throw around insults like free beads on Mardi Gras, but that's how Tuckers say _I love you._ You can't actually say the words. That would be awkward and too cutesy for them.

Craig's dad pulls the car into their garage. Unlike the Tweak's, their garage is kept impeccably neat, with bikes mounted on the wall, and his dad's toolset organized into a red metal cabinet that never seems to get dusty.

None of them talk as they unload from the car. Craig takes out his headphones, wraps them around his outdated iPod, and sticks the device into the pocket of his jeans. He wonders what he's supposed to do now. He could use a shower, maybe. He could film some of his diary, but he doesn't want to talk about what happened. He'll text an apology to Tweek later tonight, and maybe by tomorrow Tweek will forgive him again. He'll tell Tweek that he'll talk to his dad about being gay. It'll be a lie, but it will make Tweek happy. And making Tweek happy…that's been his life, lately. That's all that Craig has wanted to do with his time.

It's Tweek's smile, Craig thinks. Craig's own smile is pretty stupid-looking. It doesn't look like it belongs on his face, and it doesn't really look like a smile, anyway. But Tweek…shit. When he grins, it takes up like half of his face. It's the happiest goddamn thing that Craig has ever seen. You can't look at Tweek when he's smiling – genuinely smiling – and not feel glad. It's impossible. The guy is contagious. He wears his heart on his sleeve. And for whatever reason, Craig makes Tweek smile a lot.

Not today, though.

Craig doesn't think he's ever seen an expression like the one that was on Tweek's face in that moment. "Crushed" would be a light word to describe it.

_Obliterated_ seems more accurate.

Craig's hand is on the knob of the basement door when he hears Ruby speak.

"Why did you do that," she says flatly, her voice not even sounding like a question.

As if Craig couldn't feel any worse, now Ruby would like to express her disappointment in him as well. Awesome. Just. Fucking. Awesome.

"That's the worst thing I've ever seen you do," Ruby says quietly.

Craig reels around, "You know what – fuck you, Ruby! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, and you don't know what I'm up against. This is none of your goddamn business, so get your nose the hell out of it." Craig yanks open the basement door and slams it behind him. He tries not to storm down the stairs, but he can't help it. He's angry. He is so fucking angry that his head hurts.

For good measure, Craig slams the door to his bedroom, too. He wishes he could blow up, but he doesn't want anybody to hear him. And fucking hell, if you're too loud in the basement, the whole house can hear you through the fucking ventilation system. He'd been all too eager to move down here when they finished the basement in seventh grade, but he wishes he had his old bedroom right now. Then he could shout into a pillow or some shit and nobody would bother him.

He doesn't have music angry enough for this. He's furious, absolutely fucking furious, and he doesn't know how the fuck to fix it.

But the anger is only what's on the surface. Craig chews on the end of one of the strings on his hat. It's kind of gross, but it gives him something to grind his teeth on. He's never felt so much pain in his chest before. It feels like he's having a heart attack. He paces back and forth for a few moments, and sits abruptly on the edge of his mattress.

Craig takes out his phone. Glaring on the screen is the picture that fucked it all up. Craig and Tweek. They're sitting together on one of the beaten up sofas just outside Craig's bedroom. Craig can't even remember what they were watching that day, just that Tweek was in one of his more _amorous_ moods and Craig was trying to fend him off. Somehow they ended up like they are in the picture – Craig's arm slung around Tweek's shoulder and Tweek with his head resting against Craig's. Craig snapped a picture because Tweek just looked so…at peace. So _okay_.

And fuck, you know? The picture is cute. It's _cute_.

Craig shakes his head and brings up his text screen. He enters 'Tweek' into the 'To:' bar. Craig begins and erases several messages. He doesn't know how to get his feelings across. He's bad at that. He knows he is, too, but for some reason, Craig also finds himself bad at saying that he's bad at explaining feelings.

_Look, this afternoon –_

Erase.

_Hey Tweek, I was really stupid and I just want you to know –_

Erase.

_I've never felt this crappy about something in my –_

Erase.

_I'm a shithead and –_

Erase.

What the fuck is he supposed to say? He can't just get away with what he did. Craig feels guilt and dread run over him in waves. It makes him feel nauseated and horrible, and makes the pain in his chest worse. Holy fucking hell. Why didn't he just keep steering clear of relationships? They make you feel like shit. He's never felt worse in his life.

_I'm so sorry._

Send.

Craig sets his phone next to Stripe II's cage. The guinea pig shuffles forward, blinking at him with big eyes. God, at least there's somebody that he can't fuck up with. Craig is much better suited to dealing with guinea pigs than he is with people. Sighing, he opens up the top of the container and gently extracts Stripe II with both hands.

Craig lays his head on his pillow, pressing his back flat against the mattress. He sets Stripe II on his abdomen. For a long while, he and his guinea pig stare at each other. Stripe II's nose twitches. Craig would swear to it that Stripe II is wearing a sympathetic look on his face. The guinea pig does tend to intuitively know when something is wrong.

"I'm an idiot," Craig finally whispers hoarsely.

Stripe II's whiskers twitch in empathy, and so he goes on keeping his voice quiet, because he doesn't want anybody to hear him talking to his guinea pig, "I bet guinea pigs don't have these problems. Shit, you don't even _know_ your dad. I'm the closest thing to a dad you've got. And you know, I'd be perfectly okay if you were gay, Stripe." Craig runs his knuckles gently over the guinea pig's fur. Stripe II edges forward a little more. He looks like he wants to get down from his perch on Craig's stomach.

"I know you want to explore," says Craig, "but I'm talking to you."

Stripe II looks maybe a little annoyed, but complies when Craig reaches over to the little plastic bag beside Stripe II's cage and sets a couple treats on the t-shirt space before his pet. Craig goes on, "I fucked up so bad."

There's a knock on his door, and before Craig can tell the intruder to kindly fuck off, Ruby slips into the room. She's carrying two of their ugly Christmas mugs in her hands, and after closing the door behind her, she offers a mug to Craig.

"You made me hot chocolate," Craig states emphatically, eyeing his sister.

She shrugs, "I put some water and powder in the microwave, but yeah, I guess so."

"Why," he says.

"I heard what Dad said to you on Saturday, you know," she confesses. Ruby lowers herself down onto the carpet, putting her back against the bed, so that she doesn't look at him. They're both bad at this, he realizes. The _I love you_ stuff. "I still don't understand why you didn't stick up for yourself."

Craig keeps petting Stripe II. For a few seconds, he doesn't speak. He'd thought that Ruby was already asleep by the time he's gotten home that night. The fact that she hugged him on Sunday morning makes a lot more sense now. At last, he responds, "Don't wanna fuck up our family."

"It's already fucked up," Ruby tells him, "and it isn't because of you."

"I can't do it," Craig says.

She knows what he means – he means that he can't tell their dad to shove it up his ass, and yeah, fuck you, your son is gay, and that shit isn't changing. She takes a sip of her cocoa and says, "Well, you're gonna have to, asshole, after what you did to your boyfriend."

That pain in his chest becomes suddenly prominent again. It aches.

"Okay," Craig says. His sister is right. He hates admitting that, but she is. The problem that remains is that he can't live in a house where he isn't wanted. Before this afternoon, the Tweaks would have housed him, but definitely not after his stupid fucking stunt was pulled. Clyde would drive him fucking insane within the space of two days – and so the only obvious remaining option is Token.

Craig plucks Stripe II off of his chest and returns the guinea pig back to his home. He heaves a tired sigh and says, "You're gonna have to take care of Stripe II."

"You don't have to _leave_," Ruby argues.

Craig looks over his shoulder at where she's sitting below him on the carpet and says, "Yeah, I do." He picks his phone up to text Token that he's gonna need a ride and a place to sleep. Craig won't admit it out loud (it sounds stupid even in his head), but a blow of disappointment hits him in the gut when he sees that Tweek hasn't texted him back yet. He wasn't expecting any better, he supposes. It still makes him feel sick to his stomach and lonely as fuck.

_Gonna need to stay with you from now on. Pick me up_, Craig texts. He pockets his phone and tosses an open duffel on his bed. He packs a few things carelessly. Just essentials. Clothes. Underwear. His laptop. His video camera.

And that's it. Minus his guinea pig, his life is packed into a duffel bag.

"Don't be a dick, Craig," Ruby insists, "You can still _live_ here. Mom wouldn't let Dad kick you out of the house. You know that. You're being a drama queen, dude. This is ridiculous."

"I'm not living here while he makes up his mind," Craig gruffly says, shoving his feet back into his slip on Vans.

Ruby stays on his heels as Craig marches up the stairs like a soldier to battle. He's resolved to do this. He has to. His sister isn't going to change his mind. When he tells her that, she sputters indignantly and calls him a drama queen again. He doesn't argue. This may be dramatic but it's what he has to do. He should have done it a long time ago. Maybe he should have done it all the way back in November, when Tweek kissed him in the upstairs bathroom. Probably, but what the fuck ever.

His parents are sitting on the leather couch in front of the big screen, watching some shitty action movie. He didn't inherit his good taste in film from them, that's for fucking certain.

They look up when he and Ruby come in. Craig must look like hobo, with his backpack and his duffel bag hanging off of him like death sentence.

"It's a school night, Craig, you're not staying at a friend's," his mom says.

"Fuck you," Craig says.

"Excuse me?" Thomas Tucker pauses the movie, "You do not speak to your mother that way, Craig. Apologize."

"No. Fuck you," Craig repeats. His parents look more than pissed, but before they can get a word in edgewise, he breathes deep and says, "I'm gay. It's not a phase. I waited for it to change, but it isn't going to. And I can't live in a house with you assholes while you spew hateful shit – Not you, Mom," He adds the last bit at the sight of his mother's scandalized expression, and then stares his dad straight in the eyes, "I am shit sick of trying to impress you, Dad. Seriously, just fuck it. I'm not gonna ever be what you want me to be, and why. Because I like guys. And the one I pushed away from me today is my fucking _boyfriend_. And guess the fuck what – he has been for like, six months. But he might not be my boyfriend anymore. I fucked up bad, and I fucked up so bad because I was trying to be what you want. So fuck you. I'm leaving."

Craig turns on his heel. He hears Ruby walking after him.

He's out on the sidewalk. His bags feel heavy, and he guesses he'll just have to walk part of the way to get to Token's.

"Craig, wait!"

Ruby bounds up to him and wraps her arms around his neck. This time, unlike Sunday morning's awkward embrace, Craig draws his arms up around her, too. He says, "I'll see you at school."

"Yeah, okay," Ruby says softly.

They break away from each other. It's kind of awkward, now, but he's glad that he didn't have to stand there alone when he came out. Craig is actually relieved that Ruby stood behind him the entire time. When he looks up, he sees his mom standing on the porch. She looks to be some combination of pissed off and extremely upset, and he feels bad for making it that way.

"It's fine with me, you know," she says, in a tone that suggests she's speaking to a frightened animal. She doesn't move from her place on the porch, either, so maybe that's what Craig is to her right now.

"Whatever, Mom," Craig says, "See you tomorrow, Ruby."

"Craig, don't leave like this," his mom finally comes down the driveway, walking swiftly to block his path on the sidewalk. She says, "Your father is being an asshole about this, I know, but we're not kicking you out. I will _make him_ be the father he's supposed to be."

Craig replies wearily, "You can't make somebody do that, stupid."

His mom rolls her eyes at him, but she seems to have understood his point.

Adrenaline is still pumping through Craig, and he takes her wordlessness as a cue to go on, "And besides, he thinks I'm something to be ashamed of. Well, fuck that, Mom. I've spent forever being fucking ashamed of this. Of _me._ And I won't anymore. I'm not ashamed."

She folds her arms after a period of silence and says, "I know none of us are very good at this –"

"Feelings?" Craig says, "No, we really suck at that shit."

Mrs. Tucker exhales through her nose and lifts her middle finger. She says, "But you know, you're my son. There is nothing in this world that will stop me from loving you." She chokes a little on the word 'love,' and Craig understands. It's a hard word to say most of the time. He doesn't know if he's ever really said it, at least when telling another human that he cares about them. 'Love' just seems so sappy, so junior high.

And right now, fitting.

"Love you too," Craig mumbles.

Mrs. Tucker gives Craig's shoulder a firm pat and says, "Even if that boy is a little nutty, he's pretty handsome. You'd better fucking tell him how sorry you are. And behave yourself at the Blacks'. No more smoking, you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Craig mutters, and he isn't sure how his mother knew that he's staying at Token's. It's just one of those things, he guesses. Sometimes moms just know things.

A pair of bright headlights rolls up over the hill, attached to Token's BMW. Craig decides that it's better not to say anything else other than what has already been exchanged between them. He loads his backpack and his duffel into the backseat of the car and slides into the passenger's seat. He doesn't bother waving goodbye or any of that sentimental shit, and neither do his mom or Ruby. They each just stand on the curb, stances mimicking one another's, as Token pulls away and rumbles down the road.

Token says gingerly, "I guess you finally told them?"

"Yup," Craig answers shortly.

"Feel any better?" asks his friend.

"No. I actually feel a lot shittier," Craig says.

Token frowns, but wisely decides not to say anything. He reaches down and turns on the CD player. It starts blaring some old tunes. Craig isn't familiar, but Token hums along like he's been listening to this music his whole life. It's a little comforting, in a way. Craig knows that Token knew already, but he's glad that Token still isn't treating him any differently. It doesn't change the ache in his chest when he thinks of Tweek, or the anger that buzzes in his ears when he thinks of his dad – rather, it quiets them.

"Thanks," Craig finally says, his voice rough, as they pull up into Token's garage.

Token lifts an amused brow, his expression saying that he knew that this would happen all along, and returns, "Hey. I've got your back, bro. Always."

This makes Craig feel a little lighter, less angry and disappointed in his father and in himself. He and Token explain the situations to Token's parents together. Like Craig thought they would be, they are more than willing to house him while his father is being a dick (or their more polite phrasing 'while your father comes to terms with things.').

The Blacks have two guest bedrooms. Token shows Craig to the one beside his own bedroom. Craig's familiar with it – this is the room that he and Clyde used to sleep in when they would have slumber parties as kids. 'Slumber parties' sounds pretty stupid now, but Craig thinks that he would rather think of this new venture in his life as a slumber party than 'the kid that sleeps at his friend's house because his dad doesn't like that he's gay.'

Token, being the empathetic person that he is, senses that Craig needs some space while he unpacks the meager belongings that he's brought. It doesn't take very long – Craig places his laptop on top of the dresser alongside his video camera, and opts to keep his balled-up clothing in his duffel bag. He has homework that he should be doing, but he thinks that if he works his angle right, he could use this catastrophe as an excuse for having it incomplete.

He checks his phone for a text back from Tweek, but when he clicks the screen on, it is miserably blank – just the picture of the two of them together gleaming up at him. It feels like the universe is just fucking taunting him. Tweek has every right to his anger, he tells himself. Nevertheless, Craig finds himself dialing Tweek's cell number and actually calling the guy – he doesn't know what he's going to say. Texting an apology seems much easier than saying it out loud, even though Craig knows that he's the one that fucked everything up.

The phone rings several times before Tweek's voicemail comes up and tells him to leave a message.

Is Tweek ignoring him?

That would be childish, but fair, he guesses. That doesn't stop it from hurting like hell. He wishes that he didn't get himself into this shit. He could have gotten through the rest of high school on his own. That's how Craig always rolled before Tweek. But fuck. Shit, when Tweek had kissed him, it was like a revelation. It said _this is what you've been missing._ _This is why you're a miserable shithead whose love lies solely in guinea pigs and cigarettes – and occasionally your little sister._ Craig thinks about hanging up and saying nothing, but instead, he mumbles into the receiver, "Tweek, I'm sorry," and shuts his phone.

Craig sits back on the queen-sized bed and props himself up on one of the well-fluffed pillows.

If Tweek keeps ignoring him, it is going to get fucking difficult to swallow his pride. Craig has always liked to think of himself as a practical guy – he can admit when he's wrong. Right? And he's wrong this time. But Tweek shouldn't ignore his calls, especially when he is abjectly sorry. He is. Craig has been appropriately humiliated.

Maybe he just needs to apologize in person, or something.

It seems like the whole fucking world knows about this mess between them.

Craig needs a cigarette. Almost more than he needs Tweek to stop being an asshole and acknowledge him already, Craig needs to put nicotine in his system. He's seventeen, though, and the only way that he got cigarettes before was through good goddamned acting in the next town over. He's hairy enough that he looks older. Growing out his stubble for a couple of days and then hitting up Buena Vista has always served him well in his cigarette-obtaining endeavors.

He doesn't want to resort to the only other way he knows how to get cigarettes. If fucking Tweek would just grow a set and forgive him, he could bum some of his hipster cigarettes, but Tweek is being a douchebag.

The only option that's left is Kenny McCormick.

And shit, Craig hates that guy. It started out as the birthday money incident when they were in fourth grade, but it's evolved into more than that. Kenny is too fucking _nice_. To _everybody_. He gets along with every goddamn person in their grade, if not in the entire school. He's a flirt. And when he's not wearing his hood, he's got that stupid-ass All-American small town heartthrob face. Kenny's face started annoying Craig when they were like, twelve. Every person in their class, sexuality being no matter whatsoever, had a crush on that kid. And Craig spent that year growing body hair in awkward places and getting acne and generally looking like a gorilla.

Still.

Craig needs cigarettes. Or even better, weed. He hasn't smoked in awhile, maybe too long. He only ever did when the stress started closing in on him like a shrinking room. Today fucking definitely qualifies as stressful. More than that, it qualifies as utterly miserable.

This might have been the worst day that Craig has ever had in his entire life. Fuck. He shouldn't have thought that. That thought makes this all worse. It makes his gut sink even lower. It's sort of like that feeling you get when you think of something really fucking embarrassing that you did years ago, and all you can do is put your face in your hands – and then wish that you had a time machine, so you could yank yourself back by the collar of your shirt and yell, "Don't do it, man!" It's that feeling, but like ten billion times amplified.

Yeah, weed would do. It is almost certainly required at this point. And Token, being the good guy that he is, would totally smoke with him. Then Craig wouldn't feel so horribly, desolately alone, like he does right now.

Craig doesn't know why McCormick's number is in the contacts in his phone – it must have to do with growing up in this middle-of-nowhere town together. Everybody just kind of has everybody's number. Whatever. It's convenient now, isn't it?

Kenny answers three rings in.

"_What the fuck do _you_ want, asshole?"_

Okay, maybe Tweek told him what happened. It shouldn't surprise Craig. Tweek and Kenny have been tentative friends for quite some time, but became much closer when Tweek and Craig ended up a thing. Craig is still certain that it's simply because McCormick enjoys being his Craig's business and can't find anything better to fucking to do than to make his life as irritating as possible.

But still, there's an edge to Kenny's voice that Craig hasn't ever heard before. Clyde said he once heard Kenny when he was really, truly angry. But that was way back when they were kids, and Clyde said that Kenny was spewing some bullshit about not being able to die. It didn't surprise Craig that Kenny got a kid's game mixed up with reality. The guy is fucked up that way.

"I need some stuff, McCormick."

"_Is this some kind of a joke?"_

"I know I hate you and all, but I'm kind of desperate. So no, it isn't a joke, dickbag," Craig says acidly, glowering at his phone.

"_Do you legit not know what's going on?"_ Kenny asks, the sharpness to his voice relaxing a slight degree.

Craig pauses. There's something in McCormick's tone that tells him that he needs to be less of an asshole, and do so immediately. He speaks tightly, "I know what I did was wrong – but I'm trying to fucking apologize, and he's ignoring me. I've texted him like ten times, _and_ I called him." Okay, Craig exaggerated. He'd texted once, considered texting twice, and left one message. But that's a lot for him. Even that much feels like desperation to him, and he is _way _too close to actual desperation, here.

"_Sorry, asshat. I can't help you today."_

"Why the fuck not?" demands Craig, volume rising, "Don't be a douche, McCormick."

On the other side, Kenny laughs. It's loud, but without genuine mirth. _Now_ Craig is desperate. Kenny is never this terrible to people.

"What the hell is happening?" Craig says. He's losing his shit. Dear God, is he losing his shit. His emotions are fucking everywhere today. He can't keep track of them, and it's making feelings fucking escape in his voice and in his face and all over. He hates that. He hates being a gooey pile of emotions. It makes him feel pathetic. And weak. And stupid. And like he needs to rely on others, which Craig most assuredly fucking _does not_. He can deal with his shit on his own. That's what separates him from others. He can do it all by himself. He doesn't need the proverbial shoulder to lean on.

So why has his self-reliance suddenly flown out the fucking window? And fucking now, too, when Craig finds himself needing it more than ever. Fucking _feelings_.

"_Well, Craig, I'm at the hospital right now. Sorry I can't bring you weed, dickshit. I'm too busy waiting for my friend Tweek to come to, since it appears that he tried to kill himself. I fucking hate you, so much. Like an insincere fucking apology from your ass is actually going to fix this."_

Craig goes cold. He doesn't know what to say. His words get trapped in his throat like flies in honey.

Finally, he chokes out, "Is he gonna be okay?"

"_You had better fucking hope he'll be okay. If he isn't, I am going to destroy you. And I swear to fucking God, Craig, if you show up here, I am going to strangle you with my bare hands."_

The phone clicks dead on Kenny's end.

Craig stares at his phone for an extended moment, which makes everything fucking worse. Because fuck, on his stupid phone, there's the picture of him with Tweek. They're happy. They're happy because Tweek is a good person and he doesn't run around ruining everything. He's so stupid. He thought that Tweek was ignoring him. He should have known better. Tweek wouldn't never ignore him. Craig knows that, and he should have known that something was wrong right away. He's so bad at taking care of other people.

Especially now that he's realized he can't even take care of himself.

Craig realizes that he can't breathe. He sucks in air through his nose and rubs at it with his sleeve. When he pulls back, there's a damp spot on the fabric of his hoodie. He touches a shaking hand to his face, and draws it back with water on his fingertips.

And when Craig thought that now, truly _nothing_ else could make this night worse, for the first time in eight years, he's started to cry.

**o.o.o.o**

**Oh, my god, you guys. These past reviews were the most flattering I've probably ever gotten. I just want to take all these people and give them hugs: Andymin, Starrydango, ObanesHarvest, Reverse Psychology, Cynical B. Itch, MariePierre, Mallory, NightmareMyLove, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, Hinote Tora, lidd, Feta-Fingers, sasukesgothganstababy, blobblab, R.R. Miaera, Amberr-chan, Troublemaker14, and friendlyfaceseverywhere. **

**Just, shucks, you guys. I love you. In a totally non-creepy way, right? JK, I'm totally creepy.**

**ANYWAY, formal apology here. I am very sorry I forgot to add a trigger warning to the last chapter. I went back and fixed it.**

**Oh, and I know that this chapter is a bit weird, but I wanted to get a little of Craig's perspective. Next chapter will resume in Tweek's point of view.**


	16. Done My Time in the Firing Line

**Chapter Track: Some Way Through This (Plastician & Skream Remix) – The Black Ghosts**

Everything around me is so blurry…Christ, I feel lightheaded. It's really bright in here. Am I in school? The lights are the ugly fluorescent kind. I could have fainted in class. I've done that before. I feel like throwing up.

Wow. I _really_ feel like throwing up. I toss to my side and heave out the contents of my stomach. It isn't much – watery bile, mostly. I think I must have forgotten to eat today. I do that too much. Craig's gonna be upset that I forgot again. It makes him worried, I think, even though he wouldn't really say so. He likes to pretend that he doesn't care about things when he really does. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut against my swimming vision.

Wait, Craig…

Oh.

I open my eyes again. I blink against the white light, and try my hardest to put everything into focus.

"Tweek, sweetheart, are you awake?" That's my mom's voice.

What happened? I went to Craig's swim meet. His family was there. I sat next to Stan. I think Craig did well, but I can't tell because I don't understand shit about sports. And then I waited for him to come out of the locker room. I was nervous because his dad was looking at me, and Mr. Tucker is really scary. At least, the look that he was giving me was scary.

Then Craig came out.

I hugged him.

_You fucking fag._

_Oh._

Right. Then I went home.

"Honey, can you hear me?" my mom again, "Your dad's on his way. He couldn't get out of work early."

I smashed all my mom's teacups.

Oh, Jesus. She must be so upset. She's spent practically her entire life collecting those. And I crushed them all in the space of one temper tantrum. How could I let myself do that? And, oh, shit, my _hands_. I…don't really remember much, just that they were bleeding a lot. How did I do that? What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. I just had an episode.

The room finally comes into focus. Two people are hovering over me. The first one is my mom. Her hair is frizzing a little. She's stressed out. Her turquoise dress has reddish-brown smears of blood streaking down the front. The other person is a stout lady wearing floral-printed scrubs, and she's holding my mom back. Why is she doing that? The nurse is looking at me like I'm a wild animal or something. Like I might hurt my mom. I would never hurt my mom.

"I don't like the hospital," I say wearily.

"We know, sweetheart," my mom replies sympathetically, "they had to sedate you when you woke up the first time. You threw a bit of a fit, I'm afraid."

When my mom tells me that I threw a "bit of a fit," it tends to mean that I went absolutely fucking bonkers. I'm too tired to freak out right now, but I really, really hate hospitals. The first horror movie I ever saw took place in a hospital. I haven't been the same since, let me tell you. I watched it at a sleepover with Stan and Kyle and Cartman. The rest of my childhood was fucked because of that. I told them _no_, but they never listened to me when we were kids. Shit, they still don't listen to me. But nobody listens to me, because they all think that I'm off my fucking rocker. And considering what I did to my mom's teacup collection, maybe they're all right. Maybe I am just the psycho kid.

"Sorry," I say. I think I might sound insincere. That isn't entirely true – I do feel bad, it's just that I'm also used to having to apologize for myself. I do a lot of stupid shit. Sometimes I wish I could be less of a freak. Now is one of those times. If I was less of a freak, I might not be sitting at Hell's Pass with my mom covered in blood and a nurse staring at me like I'm a serial killer.

My mom speaks a few hushed words to the nurse, and the woman reluctantly lets her come to the side of the narrow hospital bed. Man, I hate these things. The mattresses are all hard and it's impossible to stay warm in a hospital, no matter how many extra blankets you can make the nurses get for you.

"I don't want to talk about it," I say softly, before she can even ask.

"Your friends told me a little about what happened," she admits.

Forget that she knows what happens and how humiliating that is, who the fuck are these people she called my friends. I cough, "…Ngh – um, friends?"

"They're in the waiting room. Kenny and Stan and Kyle."

What the flying fuck? Kenny I get. Kenny hangs out with me sometimes and sells me weed. But why are Stan and Kyle with him? They're nice enough people but they don't give two shits about me. I'm not sure Kenny does either. And if Kenny does care, I have no idea why.

My mom spends the next several minutes reassuring me that I'll be okay at the hospital, that Hell's Pass, name aside, is a very safe place to me and I will not be chopped to bits by a zombie surgeon wielding a chainsaw. She can't stay, she says, and my dad should be here within an hour, but traffic's fucked up because it's started to snow.

I decide to just stay pissy. If it wasn't for the IV in the crook of my arm, I'd fold my arms and huff. But I can't, so I just glower, and complain about how shitty I feel right now. I wave around my hands – they're covered in thorough, professional bandaging, and through some of it I can see some stitches. I didn't mean to fuck them up that bad, but shit…

As soon as my mom leaves, I'm bored. A nurse occasionally comes in and they're talking about a doctor that apparently was in here while I was unconscious. The gist I'm getting from the words I can pick up is that they want to keep me at the hospital. Jesus Christ, I hope to hell that that is just hospital hearsay. I don't want to be here, I want to be back home.

That's what I'm thinking when Kenny pokes his head in the room. He looks upset as he casts a grim look over my hands, pursing his lips. I wonder if it was me that made him that upset, because I didn't mean to.

"Hey," he finally says, in a gentle voice. He slogs into the room and closes the door. I don't think that he's supposed to do that, but Kenny does a lot of things that he probably shouldn't. He tugs the uncomfortable looking chair that sits against the wall forward, next to my bed, and plops down. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Um, hi," I manage jadedly.

We don't speak for a long while. I stare at my fucked up hands, and I think that Kenny might be staring at them too. I can't…move them very well. I think at first that maybe the doctor bandaged up my hands too tightly, but the material is flexible. I should be able to move them better than I can. Instead, they just shake like they usually do while I struggle to crunch my hand into a fist.

Kenny puts his hand on top of mine and shakes his head. He says, "That's probably not a good idea."

I let my hands fall back to the way they were, palms facing up. They sting, now that I've tried to move them around. What the fuck did I do?

And again, Kenny's the one to break the embarrassed silence between us. He comments, "It's weird."

"What?" I ask, glancing sharply at him.

"Not being the injured one," he replies. We exchange tired smiles at this.

"How did you find out about me being here?" I inquire, "I've apparently only been here for like, a couple hours."

Kenny clears his throat and answers, "Er, your mom called my house and told my mom. I thought you might want some company. I got Stan to give me a ride, but he and Kyle were hanging out, so Kyle tagged along. And they uh, told me what happened."

Fabulous. My mother is going around and calling other people's mothers to make sure that I have friends. I'm sure all of South Park knows what I did by now.

And what Craig did.

It hurts.

Thinking about it hurts. It makes my hands tingle and my insides hurt everywhere. It feels like somebody reached inside me and tore my guts out, tied them into a bow, and put them back. My eyes start to burn. Christ, I don't want to cry in front of Kenny. That's embarrassing. I scrub at my eyes with my free arm and turn my head away, so that Kenny won't be able to see my face.

"Ah, dude, don't cry. Craig's a dick. You…fuck, Tweek, you're the last person on earth to deserve that shit," Kenny says.

"I just thought –" I start, but I can't finish that sentence. I just thought what? I thought that Craig actually started to care about me? He did care, though, didn't he? It felt so real. I guess that Craig never actually _said_ that he cared about me, but he doesn't ever tell anybody that he cares. That's how Craig is. Everybody knows that. I just don't understand what I did wrong. I mean, I know his dad was right there, but…

"You know that you could have killed yourself, right?" asks Kenny. His voice is dangerously low, and he's moved his bandana off of his mouth to say it. He means business when he does that.

I wipe my tear-leaking eyes on my arm again and decide that I've already forfeit my dignity. Who cares if Kenny sees me crying? I say, "Yeah, I know. But, um, I wasn't thinking about that. I don't remember much of what I was thinking, really. Ngh – just that I wanted to cut off my hands. I didn't want to die, though! And now they might put me on a three day suicide watch. What the fuck am I supposed to do in a hospital for _three days_, Kenny?" I flush at my onslaught of word vomit, but Kenny doesn't seem to mind. He looks more amused than anything.

"Well, Tweek, most people that attempt to cut off appendages _do_ have a death wish," Kenny says. He's regained back a little bit of his sass. That's good. I hate making people feel sad. This whole hospital thing makes me feel so stupid. I feel like I've made the entire town sad. I didn't want to do that, for fuck's sake.

I retort, "I'm not most people." In fact, I am kind of a freak of nature.

"Shit, I know that. But your doctor doesn't, dude," says Kenny.

This elicits a cautious chuckle from me. He laughs quietly, too. I still feel like shit. Everything sucks (mostly I suck) and my world has gone to utter shit in a handful of hours, but Christ, at least I'm laughing at something.

It doesn't last long, though. We fall back into another silence. Kenny looks away from me. His brows are smashed together. He looks concerned. He scuffs the soles of his shoes against the linoleum, making an awful squeaking noise. I swat at him with my free hand.

Kenny rewards this with a shit-eating grin and says, "Sorry." He breathes in for a beat and then continues, "Look. So, Stan and Kyle, they're my best friends a lot of the time. But not all of the time. Sometimes they can only be there for each other. I'm a big-ass third wheel a lot. But, I dunno, dude. Hanging out with you and Bebe, it's great. You're like…my crew, or something. You don't forget that I'm there. You care whether or not I'm okay. And sure, that's fucking annoying sometimes, but it's nice to know that somebody gives a damn. If you died, dude, I don't know what I would have done. I need you man. Don't fucking scare me like that."

Shit.

I feel like an asshole.

"Don't look at me like that," he says, affronted, "I'm just sayin', is all. You're my friend and I fucking love you, man."

"Thanks," I mumble. This doesn't fix my problems. Every aspect of my life is still in hell. But it helps. In some weird way, it helps.

I knew that I shouldn't have trusted Craig. Through this whole debacle, that's what I've been telling myself. Don't trust Craig. Don't trust anybody, quite frankly, because people only like hanging around me to fuck with my head. It's easy to fuck with me, and it's funny.

Still, deep in my gut, I don't think that that's what Craig was doing. Which is why I'm starting to become more confused than anything. Worry not, I am furious beyond all belief – you don't just get to _do that_ to a person – and I'm hurt, too. I'd invested practically my every thought for the past sixth months in Craig. Craig does this, Craig likes that, I'll make Craig happy if I blah, blah, blah.

Now what do I do?

I don't have time to think about my answer, because Kenny decides that he's going to quiz me on how I feel about what happened earlier this afternoon. I don't know how comfortable I am with that, but I let it fly because I'm a) exhausted from blood loss and b) hopped up on sedatives. I give him short, one-word answers. I glower. I act as childishly as I feel like I'm entitled to be. Kenny takes it all in stride, though. He doesn't argue with me or tease me or anything. I guess I really did worry him.

And then Stan and Kyle poke their heads in, saying that it's getting late, they need to go, and if Kenny wants a ride back, he'll have to leave now.

Kenny sighs and stands. He says, "I'll see if I can come up again tomorrow, okay?"

Without thinking, I lift my hand to wave. This naturally does nothing but draw unwanted attention to the dreadful state that my hands are in – Stan and Kyle, whose awkward stances mirror each other in slouches and hands-in-pockets, stare. I think when I tried to make a fist that I split open some stitches or irritated them or something, because there's a little patch of fresh blood staining the bandages. I withdraw my hands quickly and stick them under the thin hospital blanket covering the bottom half of my body.

I stare at Kenny with a _what am I supposed to say_ look on my face. I don't know these guys. I don't want them here. We were sort of friends like a million years ago, but we aren't anymore. And I don't want to have to say anything about my damned hands. And I want them to quit staring. I think about flipping them off, but I can't move my hands right, and middle fingers just remind me of Craig. This thought sinks me deeper into my hospital-misery.

"Oh, and just so you know," Kenny says, "You can hang with us, if you want, since Craig's an asshole."

Kyle murmurs some agreement about Craig being an asshole, like he's attempting to break up the tension or something.

It makes me mad that they call Craig an asshole. I guess it's true a lot of the time, but they don't know Craig. They didn't make sure he was okay on Valentine's Day. They haven't heard the way he talks about things he loves, like movies and his guinea pig. They haven't heard his laugh.

It sounds stupid that I feel like I should be the only one – with the exception of Clyde and sometimes Token – to call Craig an asshole. It especially sounds stupid because now whenever I think of him, I just think of how angry he looked when he pushed me down and called me a fag. I just remember his voice, and how I never thought I'd hear his voice be that angry when he spoke to me. That has to have been one of the most horrible moments of my life. It makes me wrench up inside. I feel like crying again.

But I still don't want anybody else calling him an asshole.

Thankfully, they don't stay much longer. Stan and Kyle wish me well with a couple of half-genuine words and Kenny promises a second time to be back to visit me tomorrow.

They leave, and I'm left alone. It's just me and my thoughts.

I wonder when my mom is going to come back.

I'm going to pretend to be asleep when my dad gets here. He probably won't believe that I'm actually sleeping, but I don't want to have to explain what happened. My mom can tell him and then they can look at me with that stupid sad look on their faces, the one that says "You've come so far, and you just had to ruin it." I know that my parents would never say something like that to me, but that doesn't stop me from wondering what terrible things are running through their heads. I wonder if they wish that they had a normal son, a Kyle or Stan kind of a son. But they got fucked up me instead.

I begin to drift, probably from some combination of meds and general weakness, and before my dad can get to Hell's Pass, I fall asleep for real.

**o.o.o.o**

I have never had such awful breakfast food in my life.

I'm not kidding. I literally have never had to resort to such a gross excuse for breakfast in my life. My mom has fed me every morning with a good breakfast – pancakes, waffles, eggs, hot wheat cereal with brown sugar and butter. All those things put this fare to shame.

I mean, Lucky Charms?

And a tin of half-frozen orange juice?

Fuck hospitals.

I glare at every single person that passes by my room while I eat. I'm not really hungry, but my mom is sitting in the chair next to me, watching like a hawk. I know she'll get upset if I don't eat. And I know that she has other things that she would probably rather be doing than sitting in a hospital watching me struggle hopelessly with a cheap tin spoon. I can't grip it right. When I try, my fingers get all achey and stiff.

I make a frustrated wailing noise and complain, "Ngh – I can't make the fucking spoon work!"

"Language, darling," says my mother, "the doctor tells me that you won't be able to do much with your hands for a few months. They're awfully damaged. Would you like some help with your cereal?"

"Would I what – _no_! I can eat cereal by myself," I snap, affronted. But apparently, I can't eat cereal by myself, not anymore. I try and try, but I keep dropping the fucking spoon into the bowl, making the milk splash and overflow over the sides. Despite my mom's polite protests, I fish the spoon out between two bandaged fingers and keep trying. Eventually, I manage to balance the utensil in my palm and scoop the now-soggy breakfast into my mouth.

I wish that my mom was allowed to bring me real breakfast. Blueberry pancakes have never sounded more appetizing. I really took those for granted, and now I'm being dealt punishment in the form of hospital food.

And I'm so overwhelmed.

My emotions can't stay put for ten seconds, except for the general feeling of being completely morose and drugged up. They're keeping me sedated because of whatever I did when I woke up the first time, which, naturally, I have no memory of.

And then there's the fact that I can't do anything with my hands. I got in trouble when one of the nurses caught me peeking under my bandages – both of my hands look all too similar to Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas. I really, really ripped them up. It's actually kind of fascinating, and if it weren't for the new bandages or the nurses checking up on me every few minutes, I'd be tempted to play with them.

I end up watching daytime television, which just makes me miserable. I can't do anything else, though, so I find myself sinking into the not-quite-comfortable pillow and moping while watching Wife Swap reruns. I realize that this is my version of hell. There is no other appropriate descriptor. This is _hell. _There are so many things wrong here:

a) Craig actually did shove me and call me fag. It was not a nightmare, it was real. Fucking awesome.

b) I am in a hospital, a place I hate more than the dentist's office and Sarah McLachlan animal shelter commercials combined.

c) I was fed crappy, soggy cereal and fake orange juice.

d) I can't move my hands, which means I can't pick at them, I can't play with Play-Doh, I can't pick shit up, and essentially that I can't do much of anything, really.

e) I am watching Wife Swap.

Hell. There is no other term for this. And this place has that awful disinfected smell that makes me think of sick people. I am _surrounded_ by sick people. What happens if I catch a deadly disease and I die in here? I just want to fucking go home.

"Knock, knock," I hear from the door frame. I look up, away from the terrible television that I'm indulging in (not that there's much else to choose from). Bebe is there. She looks really pretty today, I think. She's wearing a new red peacoat. She always likes to show me when she gets new things. It must be cold, because her cheeks are flushed and her nose is red.

"How are you feeling?" she asks. She's holding something behind her back. I crane my neck to see what it is, but she giggles and backs away.

"Mm, shitty," I say.

"Well, maybe a present would make you feel better?" She blushes a little and goes on, "It's kind of silly, but Kenny told me that you can't move your hands for awhile, so I figured you'd want something you can, well, hug." She presents the object that she'd been hiding behind her – it's a stuffed rabbit with blue fur and a yellow bow around its neck. I wonder if she knows that I have a stuffed animal collection to rival that of six-year-old girl's. Probably not, but Bebe is a good gift giver and that makes me happy.

She just always knows what kind of presents I need. I hold out my arms and she deposits the rabbit into them. She sees my hands, unfortunately. But I suppose revealing the horrible state that they're in could hardly be avoided if I wanted to hug the bunny.

"Oh, _Tweek_," she says softly. She reaches out and almost goes to touch one of hands, but hesitates, like she doesn't want to hurt me. I refrain from telling her that I'm well and thoroughly medicated, probably the point that I won't feel anything. Instead, I just lift my IV-free arm so that she can see.

Bebe looks like she wants to cry.

I feel like an asshole.

She doesn't cry, though. She just takes in a shaky breath and says, "When you get your bandages off, I can paint your nails again. If you want me to, of course."

As far as I can tell from the peeking under the wrappings that I've done, the teacup fiasco ended with me missing a couple fingernails, but I appreciate the sentiment. I say, "Yeah. Okay. I'd like that."

"Everybody at school is really worried," she says.

I roll my eyes and hug the bunny closer, burying my chin between its floppy ears. I bite out, "Fucking great. I'm glad everybody knows about faggy Tweek and Craig."

"Ugh, you're such a pain in the ass sometimes," she complains, "People care about you, dude. Everybody's really freaked out. And they like, want to have an assembly on bullying and shit because of all this."

"Gah, Jesus Christ. Are you fucking kidding me?" I whine, pulling my body even lower into the hospital bed. I mumble into the bunny's back, "It's like everybody in the world just fucking seeks out the best ways to humiliate me. Goddamnit."

Bebe rocks back and forth on the heels – very thin, tall heels – of her leather boots. She says slyly, "Craig looked like shit today."

I try to decide how I feel about this, and exactly what response to concoct. I settle on a petulant _harrumph_ and a, "Good." I don't actually want to gossip about Craig, though. I don't want to hear his name. I don't want to discuss him. I would rather that he sit in my head and stew. And when I do think about it, I don't like that he feels bad. It upsets me. I don't want Craig to feel like shit. I mean, I sort of do. I want him to feel sorry.

It's just that when I hear that he's in pain, I feel like rushing to him and telling him I forgive him. But you don't just _forgive_ what he did. No matter how much I love Craig, I can't let this go. Not yet. Probably not for a long time.

"Ngh – Bebe, can we talk about something else? Please?" I ask.

Bebe complies cheerfully. That's why I like her. She doesn't bug me about stuff I don't want to talk about like Kenny does (most of the time. When they're working together, it's a different story). Kenny likes to squeeze information out of me. Sometimes I think he does it just to annoy me, and other times, it might be because he actually wants to know. Bebe, on the other hand, can talk about anything at any given time. It makes me happy, because sometimes I don't want to talk at all. Sometimes I just want to listen to people.

We're on the topic of how she wonders whether or not she should take a year off of high school when everything goes to _absolute shit._

Again.

Craig appears in the doorway. Bebe was right. He does look like shit. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, his hair is disheveled (there isn't much of it, so I wonder how he managed to do that), his hat is crooked, and he isn't standing tall. Not like his usual, self-assured person. He slinks slowly into the room, quiet enough that Bebe doesn't notice him at first.

"Ugh, and there are so many things I want to do. Like I want to do them all at once, and I can't decide what should come first. I think I'd love to see London, maybe Paris – " she says, but she stops when she sees the horrified look on my face and follows my line of sight.

"What are you doing here?" she all but snarls.

Craig flips her off half-heartedly and says, "Fuck off. I need to talk to him. Get out of here." He points back at the doorway and makes a sneering face at her. He doesn't seem to have put as much heart as usual into his sneer, though.

Fuck. I don't want to worry about Craig. I'm still mad at him.

"No, you may not talk to him," Bebe replies indignantly. She puts a hand on each hip and stands, her high-heeled boots clicking against the floor as she walks to stand in front of my bed protectively.

I shout, "Stop talking about me like I'm not here, assholes!"

Craig nudges Bebe out of the way and puts his hands on the metal end of my bed. She makes a noise of irritation at being pushed aside, and folds her arms as he speaks. He says, "I need to talk to you," and when I just scowl at him, he says, "Please."

Bebe and I exchange a silent look. She wants to know if I'm going to be okay, because she already knows that I'm going to let Craig speak his piece. I say to her, "I'll be fine."

She nods and says reluctantly, "If you're sure. I'll see you in a couple of days, okay?"

"Yeah," I murmur.

Bebe leans down and hugs me. I sort of hug back, but I can't exactly accomplish it with the needle in my arm and the stuffed rabbit in my lap and my hands all fucked up, so I just use my free hand to pat her shoulder blade. She pulls away after a second, gives Craig a _terrifying_ glare, and strides out with a toss of her blond curls.

I hug the rabbit that Bebe gave me close to my chest, scowling off to the side, and say, "I don't want to talk to you."

"Too damn bad," Craig says stiffly. He knows I can't leave. I'm attached to a machine, an IV, and I'm wearing a backless hospital gown. But I'm sure that he also knows that I _can_ press a button or scream or something if I don't want him around any longer.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"That's nice," I respond.

Craig goes a little red in the face and growls, "Tweek, fucking – argh," he cuts himself off, I'm sure because he doesn't want to upset me. Censoring himself. How thoughtful. Craig breathes through his nose and says, "I came out to my dad."

"Was that before or after you called me a fag and shoved me onto the ground?" I ask snottily. I'm glad that Bebe brought me this rabbit. I don't think I could have been this snooty to Craig without something to hug. I say, "I'm not forgiving you."

"Why the fuck not," he demands. His hands curl into fists at his side.

"Because you don't just get a free pass for saying something that awful, idiot!" I snap.

"I said I was sorry. What else do you want," he asks, voice thin.

"Prove it," I shrug. At least, I shrug as much as I can with the various hindrances to my person at the moment, "Ngh – Prove that you're actually sorry and I'll think about it."

"What," he states. He looks a little like he wants to punch me in the face. Sadly for him, you don't get to punch hospital patients in the face. He goes on, "That's stupid. How am I supposed to do that."

"Why don't you figure it out yourself, asswipe?" I ask.

"Don't call me asswipe," Craig says.

"The irony is killing me here," I slice back, "Could you, um, go away now? I'm really pissed off at you and it makes my stomach hurt when I have to see your stupid face, so…"

Craig ignores my kid-level insults. He picks up one of my hands, instead. He holds it in both of his and squeezes out a, "Fuck." I almost forgive him right there – but I can't. When I look at his face, I remember how it looked yesterday when he called me a fag.

I'm just a big ball of emotion right now, and I can't pick out which feeling is the strongest. This is why I avoid people. People are hard. They don't understand me, and I don't understand them. One day Craig is horrible and mean, and now he's at the hospital with me, holding my hand. It makes no damned sense. I hate being this confused. I mean, Christ, I love him, but it hurts. Not a good kind of hurt, a really shitty, pathetic kind of hurt.

Craig runs the pad of his thumb over some of my stitches.

That's when I tug away. I say firmly, "No."

Craig looks at me questioningly.

I sit up straighter in the narrow bed and shake my head. I repeat, "No. I'm not doing this anymore."

"Doing what anymore," Craig says.

"Ngh – our thing together. I can't do it. You made me all twisty and weird inside and then you made me trust you and then you took it all away," I say, "I'm tired of giving my trust to people that don't deserve it. So we're done. I can't."

"That's stupid, Tweek," Craig says.

"No, it isn't!" I cry, "It isn't stupid at all. I have enough trouble taking care of myself as it is. I don't need _you_ fucking me up all the time. Jesus, just look! Look what I did!" I let the stuffed rabbit go and hold up my hands, "I'm not right in the head. I'm fucked up enough already, and you make it like, ten billion times worse. You're confusing, and really mean, and I can't handle it. I really can't."

"You're fine," insists Craig, but he doesn't sound as sure.

"Are you retarded?" I ask, dumbfounded, "We're in a hospital. I can't fucking move my fingers because I cut up my hands so bad, and I'm on suicide watch. I'm not fine, you fucking moron."

Craig barks, "What is your problem? Why are you being such a little shithead?"

"That's the point, fuckhead!" I all but shout, "I have lots of problems. Lots and lots and lots of them, and you're just another problem that I can't handle."

I regret those words almost instantly. Craig shrinks back. He casts his gaze to the floor and shoves his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans. He mumbles, "Oh. Okay."

I feel extremely shitty. How could I say something like that?

But how could he say what he did?

I'm right. I know that I'm right. We can't be together if we're going to be like this. It's how we always were and how we always will be. We fight all the time. We call each other names. Now we've both lowered ourselves to an impressive level of scummy. I guess we just have to hit each other where it hurts. I'm childish, he's a dickhead. Whatever's inside us just clashes and blows up in our faces like, all the time.

Craig rubs at his forehead, or his eyes – I can't tell because he's staring at his shoes. He sniffs a little as he wipes his sleeve across his face.

Craig is crying.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

I have _never_, not once seen him cry. And I think he meant to keep it that way, until I called him a 'problem.'

He says gruffly, "I'm gonna go." He heads to the doorway with swift, anger-riddled steps, but stops, his fingertips touching the metal doorframe. Craig half-turns back to me and says, "And Tweek – fuck you."

I sputter furiously, but he's gone before I can work up another clever retort.

I think I hear Token's voice outside, but I'm not sure.

Wife Swap is still playing on the television.

I hug Bebe's rabbit to my chest.

Sometime later, I'm still angry and confused, and a dour-faced male nurse brings in a dinner tray. It is a Saran-wrapped turkey and American cheese sandwich with a Jell-O cup, and it is gross.

Yeah, I am definitely in hell.

**o.o.o.o**

**Holy shit you guys. REVIEWS, THEY'RE EVERYWHERE. But for real, thank you all for your support and suggestions and general awesomeness: zimgr2, theyellowsky, lucy sinclair, KirstenTheDestroyer, SparklesMakeMeHappy, friendlyfaceseverywhere, Mallory, MariePierre, blobblab, lidd, Bubbl3wrapGuy,ObanesHarvest, NightmareMyLove, TheAwesom15, Reverse Psychology, sasukesgothgangstababy, DemonSlayerX1X, WizerdBeards, Amberr-chan, Andymin, Kayakokitty, Virivie, Dramatic-Sleeper, and Feta-Fingers. **

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**And here I am going to remind you all that you should still go read The Hedgehog's Dilemma by glow vomit because she is an amazing writer and her Creek fic is seriously underappreciated.**

**Comments/Questions/Suggestions? Hit me up.**

**OH AND I GOT MY FIRST FANART…that I didn't commission myself from my best friend. I will link to it on my profile ASAP, because you have no idea how exciting that is. **


	17. Tick Tick Boom

**Chapter Track: Strength Through Music – Amanda Palmer**

I spend the morning after my release from the hospital carefully preparing to not embarrass myself at school. I don't want anybody looking at my hands – I have to change the bandages every evening, but the doctor told me that I can wear mittens over them. He says something about the mittens maybe hindering my mobility, but fucking whatever. My mobility is pretty goddamn hindered anyway.

It's for that reason that my parents don't ask me to help with redoing the downstairs. The carpet that I bled all over is being ripped out right now, and my mom and dad are putting in a new hardwood floor. They can't afford to get somebody to do it for us, and so it's going to take awhile, a month at least, probably more, knowing my dad's hectic work schedule.

I don't think they care as much about the carpet I ruined as they care about the teacups. The most valuable cups were spared. They still sit in their places in the glass cabinet in the corner. I caught my mom looking at them sadly. She didn't hear me, and fuck, I'm glad I didn't trip or shriek or do anything to grab her attention. She doesn't want me to know that she's upset. And I don't want her to know that I know that she's upset.

It's convoluted and stupid, but it's how we work, and so when she drops me off at the school, I hug her better than I've ever hugged her before (by my judgment) before I wave and get out of the car. I know that a hug from her fucked-up son hardly fixes anything, and nor does it replace forty-six smashed teacups, but it's all I've got.

Maybe when my hands get better, I can make her new teacups. They'll be lumpier and uglier than her old teacups, but I can try, I guess.

Before I was released from Hell's Pass yesterday evening, Kenny visited again and promised that he'd help me with whatever I needed, which was nice of him. He even helps me flick the ashes off of the end of my cigarette when we smoke together before school. The big-eyed tiny goth kid asks if he can see my stitched-up hands while we're out, and Kenny tells him to "go fuck his emo poetry" before we head into the school.

I'm afraid that people are going to bother me. Hospital trips for South Park kids are fairly common. When weird shit goes down, Hell's Pass is inevitably filled. I've visited once or twice from events that no one cares to remember or mention ever again once they're over. But this – I did this to myself. Everybody wants to see the crazy kid that tried to cut off his hands. I'm a half-step above an exotic zoo animal to these people, I swear.

Kenny has to help me do essentially everything while my hands are healed. He's carrying my books, and he's about to put my combination in so I can get my stuff for my classes.

There's a sticky note on my locker. On the bit of yellow paper is Craig's cramped, neat handwriting. I think of all the places I've seen that handwriting – the first sticky notes that we exchanged, his discarded homework that I fished out of the trashcan, the note on my Christmas coffee…he even wrote the list of songs on the mix CD that he burned me for Valentine's Day. It's on the CD itself, too, in blue sharpie. Why do all these things feel like they happened forever ago? Valentine's Day was just over two months ago.

_Apology Song – The Decemberists_

So we're back to this, then.

Kenny and I exchange a look. I should tear it up and throw it away. I know I should. There's a trash can behind us not ten steps away. I should put it there. But I don't want to. I clear my throat and look down at Kenny. I say softly, "Ngh – um, could you, uh, fold that in half and put it in my pocket?"

Kenny gives me a knowing look. I hate when he does that. He just looks as though he knows each and every thought that's passing through my mind. Still, he lifts the Post-It off and folds it as neatly as I would, tucking it into the pocket of my jeans (and trying not to look odd as he does so).

I dictate my locker combination to Kenny and he twists it in, swinging open the ugly metal contraption. My eyes go directly to the safe little space I reserved for my own pad of sticky notes, right on the top shelf. I probably shouldn't speak to Craig. Well, write to him. Communicate with him in general. We are very much over because he is a giant asshole and I can't handle him in my life. Yeah.

"Hey, Kenny, can you do me a favor?" I ask.

Kenny exhales softly and says, "You want me to write Craig a nice little note, I'm guessing."

"Fuck you," I say, "Yes. Please write 'I Know Where You Sleep by Emilie Autumn.'"

"That doesn't sound like a forgiveness song," comments Kenny.

"That's because it isn't," I reply.

Still, he takes the pad of Post-Its in hand and scrawls what I've said. He adds a bit at the bottom, and when I look over his shoulder to see what extra he's written, I read, _By the way, Kenny is writing this for Tweek, because his hands are fucked up, you stupid asshole._ I should probably tell Kenny that he needs to cross that part out, but I don't.

Instead I say, "Emilie is spelled with an 'ie' not a 'y.'"

Kenny scratches out the 'y' that he'd put at the end of her name and corrects himself. The end result is a sloppy sticky note that I would normally be embarrassed to stick onto Craig's locker. But, I don't have any other eager volunteers to help me do shit while my stupid hands don't work, and I'm still mad at Craig, so who cares if he gets an ugly sticky note?

An even better question would probably be, _Why am I acknowledging Craig in the first place_? But it's hard to ignore him. I've spent what feels like my whole life pining after him. And I had him, too, for awhile. But I need to take care of myself. That thought sounds weird in my head, since everybody has always said that to me, and since I never gave credence to those people.

After smoothing the note onto Craig's locker, we head to class. When I walk in, everybody stares. Or at least, I feel like that's what they're doing. Kenny says into my ear, so that only I can hear him talking, "Don't worry about them, dude."

Kenny's allowed to switch his assigned seat with Red, so that he can help me with my classwork.

"It's very generous of you to help Tweek, Mr. McCormick!" crows our teacher.

I would like to die, now. I shrink back into my plastic chair like I'm a turtle retreating into its shell, drawing my knees up to my face. Only a few people turn their bodies fully around to peer at me conspicuously, but the rest sort of slide their gazes back, as if I won't know that they're staring at the freak kid. This is almost worse than being caged in a hospital for three days with crappy food. Because, sadly, the fact that my mother made me blueberry pancakes with buttermilk syrup this morning doesn't make me feel even a little better when there are twenty-five pairs of eyes on me. They seem like they're waiting for an outburst. They'll probably get one, too, if they keep on bothering me.

Kenny's hand shoots in the air and our teacher raises her brows at him. "Yes, Mr. McCormick?" she says, as if she does not believe that Kenny could possibly be the one raising his hand (he usually sleeps in this class, or, alternatively, makes broship bracelets).

"Ma'am, would you mind telling my nosy-assed peers to mind their own goddamned business and quit staring back here?" Kenny asks cloyingly. The rest of the class turns their heads to their papers guiltily. I send him a look of thanks.

This is essentially how the rest of the day works, too. I'm too tired to defend myself, so Kenny chases them off for me. At lunch, he offers me a spot at his table with Stan and Kyle and Cartman, but I don't want to be anywhere near Cartman. I'm sure he's gotten a huge kick out of this entire situation, and I don't need to hear the words I expect will be coming out of his asshole mouth. Kenny asks if I'll be okay on my own, and I'm sure I will. I'll just take way more fucking time to eat than I would have before this fiasco.

I wander to the upstairs bathroom. I can hear somebody washing their hands behind the door, so I duck my head as I walk in, trying to make myself look smaller (which I simply can't, due to my unfortunate, huge height).

"Tweek?"

I glance up sharply, because the voice doesn't belong to Craig, like I was desperately afraid that it would be. It's Token.

When I look up and our eyes connect, he looks relieved. He reaches out to touch my shoulder and I shrink back.

Token withdraws and rubs the back of his head, looking sheepish. "Sorry," he says, "Can I talk to you?"

I give him an odd look.

"Dude, please. I can't take it anymore," he says, sounding exasperated. He looks almost desperate. That's weird for Token. He's always seemed so collected to me, like he has his entire life in order and under control.

"Ngh – um, please what?" I ask, "Can't take what anymore?"

"Craig," he groans.

I frown. But he's Craig's friend. That's fucked up. He's supposed to like, be there for Craig or something. I say, "Craig's not that bad."

"You're not living with him," Token says.

"And you are?" I move my hands together like I mean to pick at them, before I realize that I've clothed them in mittens, over bandages, over stitches, and I really shouldn't be touching them at all. But I don't want to talk about Craig with Token. It's stressing me out. Shouldn't Token and Clyde hate me or something? Isn't that usually what friends do when their friend gets dumped?

_Did _I dump Craig? We weren't even technically dating.

"Tweek, dude, chill," Token says patiently, "Yeah, Craig's staying at my place 'cause his dad's kind of being a dick about him being gay. Kind of _really_ being a dick."

Oh, Christ. That's right. I'd forgotten. When Craig came to see me in the hospital to apologize or whatever the fuck he thought he was doing, he mentioned coming out to his dad. I'd forgotten. I was so pissed off that my brain sort of skipped over it.

Token goes on, "But that's not the problem, man. I can't take listening to one more second of the Moulin Rouge soundtrack."

"Huh?" I manage.

Token continues like I've said nothing, "I told him this morning that he's moping. He goes, 'fuck you, I'm not moping.' What the fuck does he call listening to that version of El Tango de Roxanne on nonstop repeat? It's fucking moping, Tweek. You've got to forgive him, dude. He's falling apart. He's pretending he isn't falling apart, but holy shit, he is falling apart."

I keep thinking that news of Craig's misery will cheer me up, but it didn't cheer me up when Bebe told me about him looking terrible when she came to see me in the hospital, and it doesn't cheer me up now. What it actually does is make me feel like an asshole. Which I shouldn't. I shouldn't feel bad for Craig because he was a raging dickhead to me and he didn't give me a good enough apology.

But then, he's still trying.

No. No no no no. He can't just do something like that to me. And besides, he's the one that quotes Yoda and says, 'Do or do not, there is no try.'

"I can't," I say firmly. Actually, my resolve is as about as firm as a molded glob of Jell-O, all wiggly and easily smushed.

Token sighs dramatically, "He's sorry, man. Craig is like, really horrible at conveying that he's sorry. But I've never seen him sorrier than this. Please, can you just, forgive him? Please?"

"Did he put you up to this?" I demand, "Ngh – cause if he did, you can tell him to lick my ass. I'm eating my lunch. Piss off."

I turn away from him and fold my arms. I don't know why I'm so testy or why I told Token to piss off. Token means well, I know that. I just don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear that Craig is falling apart and moping and it's all because of me. He should have thought of that. And now he should just earn my trust back like a normal human being. But the problem with that is that Craig is sort of a freak. He's about as normal as I am. The difference is that he hides it better.

I hear Token quietly sigh, and even though I'm not looking, I imagine that he's shaking his head like a disappointed parent. A few seconds pass, and I finally the squeak of the bathroom door being opened, and Token's footsteps away.

I try not to make a noise of frustration as I kick into the last stall, sitting on top of the toilet and unpacking my lunch.

I didn't think about how difficult it might be to eat lunch while wearing mittens over my fucked-up hands.

I end up using my teeth to piece a hole in my juice box. I can't grip the straw, so I just sort of hold it in my mouth and squeeze the apple juice out with my jaw. I'm sure it looks absolutely fucking ridiculous, which is why I went to the upstairs bathroom to do it. I still think it would have been worse to have an entire cafeteria watch me being fed by Kenny or something. He did offer, but no fucking way. Absolutely fucking not.

I might just sit in here for my next class.

I don't want everybody to stare at me.

I don't want Kenny to have to do everything for me, even if he does say that it's okay if he does.

And I don't want to have to see Craig with his headphones in and his forehead on his desk, looking like he's falling apart.

I don't want to fucking _care_ that he's falling apart.

Unfortunately, against my will and better judgment, I do care. I care that Craig is so sad because I love Craig.

I love him I love him I love him.

It's not a revelation. I've loved him since middle school, I think. At the very least, I was deeply infatuated with him.

The twisty-stabby-glittery feeling I always get when I'm around him is love. I was always told that love is supposed to feel like butterflies, but it really doesn't. It feels a little more like somebody has wrapped my heart in barbed wire, and every time I think about Craig's face or his skin or holding his hand, they tug on either end of the wire and squeeze the shit out of me, until I feel like I'm going to burst.

I felt that feeling a lot when I wasn't mad at Craig. I felt it when he held my hand that first time while watching a horror movie at Token's. I felt it when he let me crash in his car and told me that he had a morbid obsession with me. I felt it when I kissed him that first time in this bathroom, and he tasted all minty and Craig-y. I _still _feel it every time I make the Craig Special at work. I felt it especially after we'd have sex, but before we had to reenter the real world again – when we were naked and worn out, and so all we could manage to do was throw our arms around each other and cuddle. When that happened, he'd get this tiny smile on his face. I'm not sure if he even knew that it was there. It's a smile that only I ever get to see.

I still feel this feeling, even if I am pissed off at him. It just doesn't feel as happy. It feels awful and achey. It feels exactly like it's supposed to, I guess. It feels like I'm missing something that I love. Which I am. I'm missing Craig. It sucks, it really, really sucks. But it confirms something to me that I wanted to prove to myself.

Maybe I don't _need_ Craig. Maybe I don't _need_ anybody. I could be a recluse if I was so inclined and I'd probably be fine. Because I'm a freak of nature, and that's fine.

But I _want_ Craig.

And Craig wants me. Despite the fact that I'm weird-looking, gawky, childish and a little bit not-okay in the head. That's fucking amazing. It's awesome.

I think that maybe I should forgive him.

I'm suddenly not hungry anymore. I close my Chinpokomon lunchbox quietly and slide off of my perch. I kind of want to smoke again, but the fact that I have to get somebody to help me smoke makes it seem vastly less appealing. I suppose that's probably good. I smoke like a chimney, anyway, and I know that shouldn't.

As I walk to put my lunch away in my locker, I'm swept away by an overwhelming sense of misery. I feel like I've ruined everything, everything good in my life and everything that I love. I smashed my mom's teacups. She loves those cups the most of anything in the world, after me and my dad, I guess. I stepped on Craig – and even if it was only after he stepped on me, it was still kind of mean. Some days I'd like to believe that I'm an "eye for an eye makes the whole world blind," kind of a guy. But, if I'm being honest with myself, I'll tell you that I'm a bit of a vengeful bastard.

Okay, I'm _totally_ a vengeful bastard. Whatever. Acknowledging that I am a vengeful bastard does nothing to improve my mood.

Even though everybody keeps telling me that I haven't ruined anything, I feel as though I have. I feel like I stomped on everybody's feelings because my own were more important to me.

I'm starting to feel immensely depressed. Did I remember to take my meds this morning? I can't recall. My brain is busy being slow and stupid and concentrating on Craig when I should really be trying to ignore Craig instead.

There's already another sticky note on my locker.

_Love Should – Moby_

He doesn't even have a snarky note at the bottom to Kenny.

And the song has the word 'love' in the title.

Jesus Christ. He must be really, really fucked up.

I struggle for a moment to take it off and put it in my pocket. The fact that I can't fold it bothers me. It'll probably get all scrunched up before the end of the day. I don't want to have to wait until the end of the day to go home, either. I'm tired and miserable and I can't fucking _do _anything anyway.

So I ended faking sick in the nurse's office again.

My mom is in front of the school within fifteen minutes of being called. She's scared for me, now. I guess that's what happens when your sons tries to cut his hands off and crushes forty-six teacups in his rage. You get scared. I think she's scared enough that she'll actually let me do anything I want. My parents have always _sort of _been like that, but I seemed to have some semblance of rules occasionally. Or, sometimes, my mom would tell me that I needed to go to school so "my future can be as bright as I am" – a statement that has always lead me to believe that I have a pretty goddamn unhappy future ahead of me.

As soon as we arrive back home, I tuck myself away in my room. If I could sleep, that's probably what I'd do, but I can't. So, instead, I wrap myself up in my blanket like I'm a burrito and just lay there, mostly feeling sorry for myself and wishing that I could just go away. Kenny calls during fifth period – which I'm sure he's ditching, asking where I went and if I'm okay.

I tell him to fuck off and that I'm busy hating myself.

And hating oneself, loath as I am to admit it, is not particularly satisfying.

At around four in the afternoon, I decide to roll out of bed and do something. Try to do something. Anything, really, that will keep my mind from wandering to Craig. It's cold in my house and it's raining outside, so I tie my blanket around my neck like a cape to keep warm while I walk downstairs. It doesn't rain much in Colorado, but when it does, it always seems to rain several days in a row. It's not an isolated event. This rain isn't even true rain – it's some Coloradan spring hellchild of sleet and ice. And this morning it was fucking sunny. I'm glad I decided to fake sick. Better to be at home while the weather is on the fritz.

My mom is upstairs napping, and I take that opportunity to make myself coffee with Bailey's. I'll probably end up drinking it all. I want to be drunk right now, but I don't want to do hard liquor. I don't typically like the hard stuff anyway. I make exceptions, though, when I feel the need to be particularly trashed (See: Token's New Year's affair and/or any time I have to interact socially with more than like, four other people). I just want enough alcohol in me that I stop thinking about Craig.

And as alcohol tends to do, I just start thinking about Craig more. With drunken emotion. With my stiff hands, I take his sticky notes out from my pocket. They're all wrinkled up, like I thought that they would be. I read the names of the songs over again and take a sip of spiked coffee. I have to hold my mug oddly – I stick four fingers through the handle, and since I can't bend them well, I just balance the mug. It's taken me some time to perfect, and even still, I slosh some of my coffee and alcohol mixture onto my blanket-cape.

I wish everything wasn't so hard to accomplish anymore. I wonder if people think about how much stuff that they use their hands for. Usually I don't, but even before slicing them up, I'd sometimes bite and tear at them so badly that they'd hurt when I did things, simple tasks, like reaching for a fresh mug or opening a door. But I never really knew until now. Simple things are hard. Simple things suck to do. Like now, now I'm trying to open my laptop, but I have to wedge the tips of my fingers into the gap between the monitor and keyboard and pry the two apart with all my might.

Typing is hard, too. Not that I've ever been good at typing or that I've ever typed the "right" way, anyhow. I'm just slower.

I download Craig's songs. It feels weird to me. I know I was doing this only a few months ago all the time, but when he and I became attached at the hip, we just e-mailed each other the music files instead of exchanging sticky notes. I guess e-mails have become too confrontational for us, then.

I miss him.

I don't want to.

That's probably the billionth time that I've thought those things.

I double click the newly downloaded Moby track. I'm familiar with Moby. My dad was really into his music like, ten years ago. Kind of reminds me of being little. I've never heard this one before, though. I'm not sure that it's to my taste. It's slow and sad. So maybe it's not what I usually listen to, but it is what suits my mood. I wonder if it's what suits Craig's mood, too. Does he feel like a slow, moody song? I feel like that.

_I feel my heart start to burst with all my love for you_

That's when I start listening.

_I know how it rains_

_I know how it pours_

_I could never feel this way for anyone but you_

I've spilled my coffee in my lap.

**o.o.o.o**

**Hey! Seriously, so much thanks for these wonderful, majestic creatures I call 'reviewers': Cynical B. Itch, friendlyfaceseverywhere, NightmareMyLove, Mallory, Reverse Psychology, patsu, zimgr2, MariePierre, Kayakokitty, blobblab, Chasing Rabbits, SomeoneCMary, troublemaker14, KirstenTheDestroyer, Bubbl3wrapguy, TheAwesome15, Wendlekins, PrettyLilOtaku, Artemisgirl91, tsuki-shitsuji, and WizerdBeards. **

**I know this chapter is short and sort of just jam-packed with emotions, but the last few days have been pretty rough. Especially with that new episode, amirite? **

**This story is wrapping up. I believe all we have left is one more chapter and a short epilogue. I hope some of you will stick around for my next fic! It will be a Style fic, though it is going to be out later than I originally thought because now I have to see what happens in the show before I let myself write it. **


	18. In an Hour at the Car

**Chapter Track: Have to Drive – Amanda Palmer**

Three days later, I'm listening to 'Love Should' on my iPod over and over, flipping the replay switch so that I can lay round in bed, snuggled into my multiple pillows with my blanket cape wrapped around me, not moving. When I finally do move for the first time, I stretch my arm toward my bedside table, where I propped the stuffed bunny that Bebe gave me against the alarm clock that I never use. I pick it up and hug it close to my chest.

I wish that I wasn't too lazy to disentangle myself from this blanket and change out of my jeans. They chaff from wearing them too long, and I'd rather be in pajamas…but I'm a lazy asshole.

I realize that this bunny rabbit is same color as Craig's hat. The exact same blue. And the bow is yellow like the pompom on the top.

My next thought is, _Don't name the bunny Craig. Don't do it, Tweek._ It does need a name, though. I've really just been referring to it as 'bunny' or 'bunny rabbit.'

And naturally, since I tell myself _not_ to name the rabbit Craig, I do exactly the opposite of what I told myself to. I name the bunny rabbit Craig. Of all the things to do when I'm still trying to be mad at the asshole. I'm such a pushover sometimes. When I strive to hate somebody, I listen to the love song he stuck to my locker, name my stuffed rabbit after him, and cuddle it. Fucking great.

I even fall asleep like this, probably because I'm a little tipsy and I'm cozy and I'm at least snuggling something with the same name as Craig. It's only for around three hours – I wake up at four in the morning with my headphones still in my ears and in the middle of 'Love Should.' I feel kind of shitty and clogged up, probably because I drank too much coffee and Bailey's and I'm dehydrated.

That's a lie. There's no such thing as too much coffee and Bailey's.

Still, I pull the headphones out of my ears and place my iPod in a safe spot next to my useless alarm clock, and wander into my bathroom. I'm still wearing my blanket-cape, since it's freezing outside and still spitting sleet from the sky.

I fill a plastic cup with tap water and guzzle it down, repeating the process two more times before chugging it down with four ibuprofen thrown into the mix. My head is heavy and I feel gross. That's usually how I feel after I sleep. That's why I don't understand how people can actually enjoy it. The only time I ever feel refreshed after sleeping is when I wake up from crashing, and that doesn't actually happen that much. Mostly, I take these little naps, and feel worse than I did before I slept, all groggy as fuck.

I look about as shitty as I feel when I lift my eyes to look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are so shadowed that they almost look bruised. I'm pale and my eyes are sort of bloodshot. I look like a zombie. That's what I get for sleeping. I brush my teeth to get rid of the after-alcohol-and-coffee taste lingering in my mouth. I should probably brush my teeth more than I do. But not as much as I wash my hands, because then I would probably brush my teeth so much that they'd shrink and I'd have no teeth at all.

I make no sense.

I hate everything.

Why am I such a sucker? Specifically, why am I such a sucker for Craig?

An even better question to ask would probably be, _Why does he like me_?

I mean, Jesus Christ, _why_? Why would somebody actually _like_ me on purpose? I'm fucked up beyond belief, I chain smoke, I shiver and twitch and have a million conspiracy theories that I am very certain are not conspiracy, but truth. The gnomes, for example. I tried to explain them to Craig after we slept together for the first time because they'd taken his underwear, but Craig didn't believe a word of it. Plus, I can't be average-looking ever, even on a good day. I'm too tall and strange-looking to be able to accomplish that. Then there's the hands thing.

There are a million reasons not to like me, is what I suppose is my point.

And Craig likes me anyway.

Why is this so fucking hard? I was perfectly content with staring at Craig for years, perfectly happy with making up what music he was listening to and what strange things he did in his spare time. Now I know. I know that Craig listens to indie music when he's okay and metal when he's pissed off. I know that he likes weird movies and Star Wars and loves nobody more than his guinea pig and his little sister, even if he'd never admit to the second one to anybody but Ruby herself. And me. He likes me. Christ only knows why the fuck he likes me, but he does.

I want to stay mad at him. I want to stay mad because he's mean and a giant asshole most of the time. But then I can't stay mad, because I love him. I named my stuffed rabbit after him. I cuddled the rabbit and found myself wishing that it was human-Craig instead, and not bunny-Craig. I don't like being this angry at somebody that I love. I've never felt something like it before. Right now, all it does is serve to remind me why I hate humanity. They fuck you up like this. They make you love them and then they shove you down and stomp on you.

I don't know if I'm brave enough to talk to Craig again, either. I'm scared that he'll find out that I love him. I'm scared that when he does, he'll just push me away again.

Someplace in my chest I get a feeling that tells me _No, Tweek, he wouldn't do something like that. He cares, even if he is kind of a dick._

But he already _did_ do it. I move my hands like I'm going to pick at them. This is about the tenth time that this has happened today. Craig would probably be happy that I decided to cover them with these ugly mittens to stop me from ruining them.

Too many fucking feelings, I think. There are too many. I don't want them here, but they'll stay and bother me anyway, because that's what feelings like to do. Feelings like to creep up on you when it's most inconvenient and tangle you up in a strangle hold. And feelings probably think that having you that way is fucking funny.

Now that I'm awake, I may as well just get ready for school. I don't bother changing my underwear as I slip on new jeans – I really shouldn't wear the same jeans after I spilled half of my coffee onto them. I guess most people would probably find it gross that I occasionally wear the same pair of boxers for a few days in a row, but laziness prevails. And I'm sure Craig noticed after a while – we did have occasions in which we ended up missing clothes together several days in a row. He didn't care. So I don't either. He changes his every day, though. I've never known somebody with better personal hygiene than Craig. It's part of why I like him so much. He always smells like super masculine pine soap and laundry detergent and spearmint.

This whole situation is just a fucking platter of bullshit. Jesus Christ, I am conflicted.

Early mornings like this are just bad for me. Nobody's awake but me, not my parents or Kenny or anybody. So I get into my own head and just nestle there, overthinking every detail of my life. Lately, those details have mostly involved Craig.

We just learned each other so well, even if neither of us would say it. He knows that I make teacups for my mom. He knows that when I mix drinks, I measure everything out meticulously, down to the quarter teaspoon. He knows I like black licorice, and used to buy it for me sometimes, even though he hates it, and he doesn't have much spending money because he doesn't have a job.

I know that he sings Queen in the shower when he thinks that nobody is listening (Favorites include Bohemian Rhapsody and Bicycle Race). I know that he's kept his hair short since he attempted to cut it himself when he was twelve. I know that he likes to play Sudoku after sex (he thinks he's better at it after we've fucked, is what he says. Though maybe not in as many words).

This shit is not fucking fair.

I pull a fresh t-shirt over my head and tug a comfy zip hoodie on over that. I wiggle my toes in my carpet. They're like stubby little icicles. I decide on wooly socks. Fucking spring. I wish my parents would be more accommodating about turning up the heat, but they've gotten very into being _energy efficient_. I know, I know. It's a good thing. But I'm fucking cold, okay?

I mope my way all the way downstairs, where I flick on the kitchen light and go through the movements of preparing myself a fresh pot of coffee. I cast a bitter look at the locked set of knives – my parents took the doctor's order to keep sharp objects away from me _very_ seriously. They even took the safety scissors I use to cut up construction paper to make into weird collages. I know that they're just trying to protect me, but I can't help but feel a little like a toddler in a house full of child safety locks on every goddamn thing.

While the coffee brews, I return to my room briefly, only to collect bunny-Craig and my iPod. I resume playing 'Love Should,' because apparently, I like to torture myself. I know that's what I'm doing, but I can't stop.

Just after five in the morning, the icy rain starts to let up, and so I pad out onto the back porch with bunny-Craig and my mug of black coffee. My headache's almost gone. It was probably more from caffeine deprivation than dehydration. The only things that could possibly make this moment nicer are human-Craig and a cigarette.

I don't think I did my homework.

I also don't think I give any fucks that I didn't do it.

And oddly – that's the part that bothers me. I'm bothered that I don't care about things that I probably should care about, because all my focus is on Craig. On missing him. On loving him. But probably mostly just being pissed the fuck off at him for being such a dickhead.

I don't even know what my emotions are doing anymore, fuck it.

It isn't until an hour later, after I've spilled coffee everywhere and broken a mug because my hands can't bend right, that my mom comes downstairs. She looks perfect, like she always does. I wonder how moms do that. She sees me trying to clean up my mess with my mittened hands and a roll of eco-friendly paper towels and says, "No, no, sweetheart. I'll take care of that. Why don't you get in the car and turn the heat on while I get rid of this mess? Okay?"

She's so goddamned reasonable about me being a clumsy asshole. Why is she doing that, even after Teacup Massacre 2011? I don't voice this question, instead simply turning on my heel, gathering my messenger bag at the front, and taking the keys off of the ring by the door. I accomplish these tasks with some difficulty, and I can feel my mom watching me as I struggle, but it seems I've gained some necessary grace.

My mom has one of her oldies CDs in the car's stereo. Typically, she is very particular about listening to the songs in order, but as we roll along Main Street toward the high school, she skips a few tracks. The familiar beginning of Doris Day's 'Que Sera, Sera' fills the vehicle, and I realize that she's up to something. My mom used to sing this to me when I was kid and she would tuck me into bed. I never slept, but it's the thought that counts.

Instead of pulling up to the front of the school, my mom parks the car in the empty lot. She says, "Did your boyfriend apologize to you?" Because of course she's heard the story, most likely from Sheila Broflovski, who's a member of the same scrapbooking club that my mom's in.

"I guess so," I mutter, and stammer out afterward, "Ngh – but, um, he isn't my boyfriend!"

"You guess so?" she cocks an accusing brow. Why is she meddling _now_, of all the times?

"I don't want to talk about this!" I exclaim. I reach over to open the car door, but my hands make it difficult. Then my mom locks the doors and makes it pretty much impossible for me to get out. I protest, "Mom!"

She doesn't say anything, just looks at me expectantly.

"Yes, he apologized," I say exasperatedly, "but he was a big dick about it, so I told him to go away." I fold my arms, slouch down into the seat, and pout as hard as I can.

She _still_ doesn't say anything, and so I burst out, "Gah – Mom! Why the fuck does it matter anyway?"

"Well, sweetie, I ran into Mrs. Tucker at the grocery store, and she's a little worried about Craig, I think. You never can tell with those Tuckers – they're all very good at keeping themselves together, but she's worried about him, I'm sure of it. And I'm worried about _you_, too," She gives me a smile as she says this.

I retort, "Craig's family is good at pretending things are okay when they're not. They're just as messed up as everybody else in South Park."

My mom smiles ever wider and says, "I know, sweetheart."

This and the song are confusing me. I think my mom is trying to hint at multiple life lessons or something stupid like that all at once. I got this problem from her – having a million things to say but being unable to streamline them into a single line of thought. Instead, all the thoughts come out simultaneously, and all half-baked and nonsensical.

Fortunately, my mom and I speak each other's weird language. It took awhile to learn. My parents are both weird and essentially any time that they're trying to teach me a 'life lesson' or whatever, they make no sense. I don't always get it, but I do now.

Craig pretends that he doesn't give a shit about things, but he does. So maybe, he meant his apology to me more than he could get out.

And que sera, sera? Whatever will be, will be?

Perhaps it's a bit hypocritical of my mother to tell me to go with the flow, since she doesn't do that herself, but I understand. She thinks I should stop hyper-focusing on every little problem, every tiny feeling…

I'm not really capable of that, but I can at least give it some sort of try.

"Thanks, mom," I mumble.

She tries to smooth down one of my smaller cowlicks and replies, "You'll be okay."

I'm not so sure of that, but I murmur a half-hearted, "Yeah," just to humor her, so she'll unlock the door and let me out. She does, and I slog out onto the wet pavement. It's even colder than I thought it would be, and the uncharacteristically damp air instantly seeps in through my purple hoodie. I hurry inside, wrapping my arms around myself. It seems that my mittens have doubled their purpose.

Kenny is the only other person that ever shows up this early – not that he does all the time. I think it's just that he sometimes can't sleep, just like me, or he doesn't want to be at home, so he just comes to school. He likes staying later, sometimes, too. Especially in the winter, because it's warm inside the school and it's place that he can hang around without being questioned. He's here this morning, waiting for me at our meeting place inside the vacant cafeteria. His legs are up on a table and his hood is over his eyes, but he's not sleeping.

"Tweek," he says as I approach, and set my thermos on the table before taking a seat across from him. His tone of voice doesn't make this sound like a greeting, more like he's about to ask a question.

"Hmm?" I say, nursing my coffee.

"What do you feel like when you think of Craig?" he queries.

"Why?" I ask.

Kenny shrugs and slides his dirty boots off of the table. He says, "Just curious, dude. Man, you're paranoid."

I eye him, but answer slowly, "Glittery."

"Glittery?" he repeats, like he doesn't believe me.

"And totally fucking awful," I add.

"If he makes you feel like shit, then why do you still have a boner for him?" Kenny lifts a brow at me. I think that he might be smirking underneath his bandana.

I flip him off. I explain, "Ngh, um, I dunno, Kenny. I feel all fucked up, but for some reason, I'm enjoying being this fucked up. But I'm kind of nuts, so I don't know why you're asking me about this, anyway."

"You're not nuts," Kenny waves me off. I still don't understand why he's asking me this. Is everybody in a strange mood today? He goes on to say, "As much as I think Craig's a dick, dude, if you feel that fucked up over him, maybe you two need to hash it out. He's obviously got his panties in a knot over you."

I stare at him incredulously. This is Kenny fucking McCormick, who fucking hates Craig. And here he is sitting across from me, telling me that maybe I should try and forgive Craig. I choke out, "Are you high?"

"Not that I know of, though I could use a cigarette. You wanna come with?" he asks. He stretches as he stands, exaggerating a yawn that I can't even see from behind his bandana.

"Jesus, please," I say, "I haven't been able to smoke since yesterday morning because of my stupid hands."

"To be fair, you _did_ try to cut them off," Kenny points out.

I know he's teasing me, but I still bite out a testy, "Fuck you," because I'm even hungrier for nicotine now that promise of it is near. And, as always, my grumpiness serves no purpose but to amuse Kenny further. He gives a muffled hoot of laughter as we exit back out into the cold.

Despite the chilliness outdoors, Kenny and I remain at the little smokers' coop, huddled together, until the other kids arrive at school. Some of the goth kids congregate with us to smoke. We all have to be a little bit closer than comfortable to keep warm, which is why Kenny and I go back to the school earlier than intended.

There's a new note on my locker when we get to it. Kenny takes it down before I can see and reads loudly, "_My dearest Tweek –_,"

"It does not say that," I retort.

Kenny laughs and says, "No, it doesn't. It says 'meet me at the library.' He's being pretty persistent, ain't he? Are you gonna go?"

I look down and rub the back of my neck with my mittened hand. I say, "Ngh – I probably shouldn't. Right?"

"Why are you asking me?" he gives me a look.

I sigh. I want to go and see him.

"Just do it, dude," Kenny says, "I'm sick of you guys mooning over each other."

That's all he has to say. I slam my locker closed and jog toward the library, taking the stairs to the second floor two steps at a time. I shouldn't be this excited. I'm still mad. No, I'm not. I'm not mad anymore. I just miss him. But I tried really, really hard to be mad at him, so I can at least give myself that. But when it comes down to it, having Craig around is more important to me than being pissed. He's an asshole sometimes, but he doesn't usually mean it. He didn't mean it that day after his swim meet, either. Even if what he did was absolutely awful. Even if I still get sad if I think about it for too long.

I struggle with the door to the library. My mittens make the handle slippery, and I can't bend my fingers all the way. So I sit in front of the library clawing at the door like a cat, until Wendy passes by and takes pity on me, gently moving my hand aside and opening the door in my stead. I don't thank her, because I'm kind of dick. I just rush in, in such clamoring, messy way, that the librarians all turn their heads to look at me, and the few students braving the book stacks peer around shelves.

A hear a snigger off to my side.

And to my dismay, it is not the Tucker that I am looking for.

"C'mere, Tweek," Ruby waves me over to where she sits at a computer station.

"Where's Craig?" I demand, though I'm out of breath and my voice doesn't sound nearly as threatening as I would have liked it to be.

The expression that Ruby has on her face is a strange one – some combination of smugness and relief. She turns back to her computer station and types rapidly (she types like Craig does, the "correct" way that you're taught in school), before replying, "Probably outside smoking or moping or something. I've been working on learning how to forge handwriting, you know. Not that it's hard to trick _you_."

"Hey!" I protest, but that is unfortunately true. As paranoid as I know I am, I'm also gullible as fuck. I rub my mittens over each other, since I can't peel and pick at my hands, and ask, "What do you want?" And I'm disappointed. I wanted it to be Craig that brought me to the library. On the short jog up here, I'd imagined him maybe apologizing, maybe us kissing, maybe going out to smoke together, maybe ditching class and spending the day together. Reflecting on that, of course that seems like some fairytale fantasyland that I had rattling around in my head. Happens a lot, though, on account of the fact that I'm not really in touch with reality.

Ruby looks suddenly less mischievous and more serious. She says, "Um, I kind of need to show you something."

"No way, man," I say, holding up my hands, "You're gonna troll me or some shit. I don't trust you."

Ruby rolls her eyes, "You don't trust anybody, dumbass. But this is important, dude," she swivels around in her chair to face me again and laces her fingers together, like an evil villain in a cheesy superhero movie. She goes on, "Look, my brother is being really, really fucking stupid. And I'm like, dude, I've gotta intervene. He's not gonna come talk to your because he's a pussy, okay?"

I frown. I'd be lying if I told you that my heart didn't sink down low in my chest. He's not gonna talk to me. Maybe he doesn't care as much as I'd started to think he might. After all, he hasn't been any of the people that have tried to convince me to speak to him again – Token, Kenny and now Ruby, but never Craig himself. I don't get it.

Ruby holds out a pair of headphones to me.

I give them a suspicious look and say, "What am I supposed to do with those?"

She responds quietly, "I don't want anybody else to hear this. So you have to wear headphones."

What? Christ, everything Ruby does just scares the shit out of me. I can never predict her next move. Sometimes she's exactly like her brother, but in this aspect she is nothing like him at all. As odd as Craig is, I generally know what he's thinking or what he plans to do. Ruby is all over the fucking place. It freaks me out, let me tell you. Computer hacking, forgery – I'm sure I'm gonna hear years down the line that she's pulled off a bank heist and is nowhere to be found.

I give her my best evil eye. It doesn't seem to work. She seems impervious to all of my looks. So, I take the headphones. They're the huge kind that look like earmuffs, so I slip them over my head.

Ruby glances behind us, looking like we're about to do something illegal, before returning to the computer monitor and flipping the tab over. On it is a video, a frozen frame of what kind of looks like Token's house, and in the center is Craig, sans hat. His hat is in his hands. Though the frame is slightly blurry, he looks just about as miserable as everybody has been telling me that he is.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It's one of Craig's videos.

Why does she do this to me? This is serious. This isn't something that she should laugh at or tease us with.

But then, she doesn't look like she's laughing. Ruby doesn't even look like she's plotting against me, and her plotting-against-Tweek look seems to be her default face. She looks just as serious as I feel. And she made me wear headphones to watch it. She clicks the play button.

"_I'm supposed to be proving I'm sorry right now."_

So he did listen to what I said in the hospital. I don't know why I feel surprised, but I do. Craig likes to pretend that he's not listening to people, but he always is. He just doesn't care what they're saying, usually.

I think he _is_ at Token's house. After all, Token _did_ say that Craig was living there, and there's no other place in South Park with a bedroom that could possibly look as fancy as the one behind Craig, though it seems to be a little broken in. There are a couple pairs of jeans on the floor and some t-shirts. The bed is unmade.

Craig is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the queen-sized bed. The camera is kind of at a weird angle. I wonder if he left his tripod at his house and had to figure out how to prop it up to get essentially the same effect.

He's unusually quiet for one of his videos. At least in all the ones that his troll-ass sister e-mailed me, he always seemed so spirited and tended to rant, like he reserved his words all day for the moment he was in front of a camera. I'd started to think that that was why he was mostly silent throughout the school day. I mean, aside from hating just about everybody at South Park High, I always thought he was just waiting to speak to his video equipment. Because he's weird. He's Craig.

He's been silent on the computer screen for almost thirty seconds now, just fingering the edge of his hat in his hand. And he's chewing on his lip. That's typically my thing. He must be feeling fucking crappy if he's starting to act like me.

Finally, after letting out a long sigh, he opens his mouth again. He speaks hesitantly, like somebody will hit him for what he's saying, _"I don't fucking know how to do that. How do I prove that I'm sorry. I don't even ever apologize to anybody, and I did to him, I did because I've never felt so shitty in my life. I don't know what I thought was going to happen. I guess I thought that he'd forgive me when I told him how sorry I was, but we just ended up fighting. And then he – he didn't –"_

Craig stops talking to swipe at his eyes. _"Fuck. I fucking hate this. I've never felt so fucked up in my life. I've never fucking cried so much in my life, fucking goddamn fucking hell. I keep thinking, okay, I can't cry anymore, right. Like, don't tears dry up eventually or whatever. But they don't. That's fucking stupid. I'm tired of being this way."_

He takes a second to even out his breath. I wonder if Token taught him how to do that. Token's the only person that I can think would do that for Craig, aside from me, but I never had a reason to teach him calming breaths. I learned how to calm myself down from a therapist.

He comments, _"I want Stripe."_

Pause.

"_Isn't that fucking stupid."_

Craig looks like he needs something to hug. That's what the look on his face is. I know the feeling. And bunny-Craig has been serving the purpose for me. But I've been in Craig's room. He didn't have any stuffed animals to take with him Token's. And I somehow doubt that Token would have any stuffed animals of his own. I feel bad because I feel like I need to give Craig something to hug. Jesus Christ, we're both so wrecked up right now. I don't understand why he can't just tell me that he's sorry like he means it. Then _I _could be the one he hugs, and he wouldn't need a stuffed animal to replace me.

"_I tried to…tried to like, figure out how to say it to him. You know. All those stupid fucking words that people in movies say all the time. I'm sorry. I love you. But they get all fucked up in my mouth and they never sound right. So I leave a sticky note. That's what we do. I thought maybe he'd forgive me, then. He didn't."_

Craig lifts up his hat and buries his face in it. I can only barely make out what he's saying, _"I'm gonna turn the camera off, now. Filming this is just fucking masochistic. I can't do this anymore." _ Craig tosses his hat aside. My stomach lurches and twists when I see his face. He isn't a graceful crier. His face is red and tear-stained and his nose is running. He makes a clogged, distressed noise in his throat. It's the sound of trying to cry quietly, and not being able to.

The last thing that he does before he turns off his video camera is wipe his nose on the sleeve of his grey thermal and make a similar noise, just a little louder.

I stand in front of the computer for a few minutes with the headphones still on, frozen and angry and feeling like shit because I know that I was the one that made Craig feel that way. I finally look down at Ruby and see that she's looking back expectantly, waiting for me to say something. Sometime during the video, Karen McCormick also appeared, and is hanging back a few feet away. I'm guessing that like Kenny, she has the uncanny ability to know when she needs to leave somebody alone.

I pull the headphones off of my head, making my hair stick up even more. I say to Ruby, "Um. Bye."

She stands as I start walking away and says, "Wait! Aren't you going to tell me what's going to happen? Tweek!" But I've already made it to the double doors to the library. Luckily, this side can be pushed open, and I don't need to claw at the door handle like an idiot.

I'm gonna find him. I don't care if I'm even a little mad still, because maybe I'm not mad at Craig anymore. I'm mad at me. I'm mad that we fought enough to get like that. That he feels so horrible that all he's been doing is crying and listening to the Moulin Rouge version of El Tango de Roxanne. That's just pathetic. And I drove him to that. At one point, that might have amused me – that I'm the only one that can fuck him up this badly. I used to think that exasperating him was funny. And on a lower level, it still kind of is. But not like this, not like this at all. I don't want to be the guy that makes him like the Craig I saw on his video diary.

Class is about to start and I don't even care. I know that Craig doesn't care either. He's going to be outside smoking his before-school cigarette.

Craig always smokes away from everybody else. He's in the same general area as the other smokers, sure, but usually he's like six or seven feet from person closest to him. That's how he is today. He's standing, smoking alone, headphones in. He's looking at his feet, so he doesn't see my approach.

I yank his headphones out of his ears.

Token was right. He's listening to that Moulin Rouge song.

Craig snatches his headphones back and snaps, "What the fuck, Tweek."

"Your sweater is fucking ugly," I tell him, because it's the only insult that I can think of on such short notice. It isn't that bad, really. It's just supremely tacky. And Jesus, why have I never seen that thing before? It's a sweater knit to look like R2D2. Craig is wearing an R2D2 sweater. Okay, actually, it is pretty ugly. It's nerdy _and_ ugly. But maybe that's why I realize that I like it, and I want Craig to wear that hideous sweater all the time. It suits Craig. And I find it funny when he wears his freakiness on the outside instead of hiding it behind his ski jacket.

Craig bites back, "Fuck you, I like this sweater."

"Me too," I say, despite informing him of its ugliness a mere ten seconds ago.

We go silent.

I think that I'm supposed to say something now. It has to be me, because Craig is bad at the mushy stuff and doesn't like saying it. So I tell him, "I love you too." At least, I think that that's what I'm supposed to be telling him, right? I hope that trusting him with my feelings is the right decision. I think it is but I don't know. And what if I misinterpreted his song? But I couldn't have. Right? Fuck. I don't know.

"Fuck," he murmurs. Craig throws his half-finished cigarette to the ground. He tugs on one of the strings of his hat and asks, voice low, "Tweek, can I, uh, kiss you." Jesus Christ, I missed his questions that don't sound like questions. They're just so quintessentially Craig, and nobody will ever be able to ask them quite like him.

"Ngh – um, yes, please," I grin.

Craig grips the sides of my face in both hands. I make a noise of surprise. He's manhandling me a little more than I'm used to and – he tugs me down pushes his lips against mine. He tastes like an ashtray, but I don't care. I'm just glad to have his mouth on mine again. His tongue tangles up with mine and our teeth knock together because we're so overeager to be close to each other.

From our side, one of the goth kids – I can't identify which, shouts, "Fags!"

Craig breaks off the kiss. For one moment, a panic-infused moment, I think he might push me away like he did after his swim meet. Instead, he lifts both middle fingers and yells back, "Yeah, fuck you. At least I _have_ a boyfriend, you emo asshole."

Boyfriend.

"We're boyfriends now?" I ask. My words come out smaller than I meant them to.

"Unless you don't want to," Craig remarks, and even is he sounds like his usual careless self, I know that there's a lot resting on his statement.

"Are you shitting me?" I gape. I press a kiss to his lips. My aim is a little off. I get his nose instead. I query, "Does this mean that you'll hold my hand in public?"

"Yeah," he breathes, and to prove his point, he reaches forward, and grips my mittened hand in his own. His grasp is gentle, though. He's trying to be careful of my cuts, I realize. That makes me feel all glittery, and so happy that you can't even imagine. Craig adds, "No PDA, though."

I make a gagging noise, thinking of how Token and Red were the first few weeks of dating. There were tongues _everywhere_, and it was so fucking gross. I agree, "No fucking PDA, man. That's nasty."

I love that we've agreed to this only after we've had a mini-makeout in front of the goth kids.

Then I ask, "Can I make dirty jokes about us in public?"

Craig rolls his eyes at me, "I'd rather you didn't, but you look like you're going to, anyway."

I grin.

He returns a very small, very hesitant smile a couple beats later. We probably look pretty stupid. We're a couple of guys, one in a purple hoodie, the other in world's tackiest Star Wars sweater, holding hands and smiling like morons over something we should have figured out fucking forever ago. That's okay. I know that looking stupid is usually something that I'm afraid of, but I don't mind looking stupid if I'm with Craig.

Craig rummages in the pocket of his jeans. What he lifts up is a plastic bag of weed. I would question the idea of keeping that in such plain sight, but then he says, "Wanna hotbox Token's car and fuck?"

That is the most romantic suggestion I have ever heard come out of his mouth.

**o.o.o.o**

I don't bother asking how Craig managed to get a key to Token's BMW, but somehow, he has. So, instead of being in class, we pull out of the school parking lot in Token's fancy-ass car. I ask Craig where we're going, but it doesn't take long to get out into the middle of nowhere. South Park is surrounded by nowhere.

The anticipation is fucking _killing_ me, though. We're out of town in like, two minutes, and on the road dotted very occasionally with farmhouses or property with To Lease signs sticking up out of the ground, big and bright enough that you're forced to look at them. It's one of these lots that we pull off onto, taking the uneven dirt road around a corner and behind a hill. I hope Token doesn't mind his BMW being covered in dust.

I pounce on Craig as soon as he stops the car and turns off the ignition.

Christ, I wanted this. I spent way too much time thinking about this. I should have given up being mad ages ago. Craig is worth it. He's been worth my forgiveness all along, even if he was kind of a dick. That's okay. I know what he meant. Our argument, translated from Craig-speak, was an incredible apology and an _I love you._

"Whoa, fuck, Tweek," he mumbles, when the back of his head bounces against the window glass on the driver's side. But he lifts his head to meet my lips.

I do my one of my favorite things to do with Craig. I take off his hat and run my hands through it, pressing kisses along his hairline as he rolls up a joint, panting. I'm already hard. Probably because the entire time I was mad to the time I was just pretending to be mad, I thought a lot about Craig, and a lot about Craig being sweaty and naked… and I couldn't jerk off because of my hands. And _that_ is one thing that I couldn't ask Kenny to help me with.

Craig lights joint and takes the first inhale. He holds the smoke in and grips the back of my head, kissing me and trading smoke in my mouth. This would be gross with anybody else. With Craig, it's just fucking awesome. We take turns doing this for awhile – because we get high fucking fast, and trading smoke becomes hilarious as fuck.

We somehow end up in the backseat. I suppose because it's easier to get handy with each other when there isn't a parking brake in the way. Craig is on top of me and he's unzipping my hoodie. His hair is sticking straight up in places because of my playing with it. I laugh loudly. Craig gives me a crooked smile.

I take the last of the joint, inhaling twice before cracking the window and tossing it behind us.

Craig's stubble is scratchy and wonderful against my neck as he kisses behind my ear. Even still, he smells like aftershave and that incredible warm smell that nobody can really name, just that it smells like guy. Fuck, I love that smell. I love everything about Craig. Even his ugly R2D2 sweater. So I say to him, "I love you."

He moves up to peck a kiss on my lips and mumbles, "Love you too."

"I love your ugly sweater," I say a little incoherently, and I laugh at my own words.

Craig starts to pull off my purple hoodie, tugging the sleeves back. He accomplishes the task clumsily, and casts the offending clothing to the front of the car. He pushes kisses all along my jaw and murmurs, "Wanna know a secret," he nips down on my earlobe, "I only wear this sweater when I feel like shit. Means I can't wear it anymore." He sits back in a crouch and tears the tacky thing off of his body. Sadly, he's wearing an undershirt.

"Take that off too," I say hazily.

Craig laughs at me, but he obliges, tossing the thin t-shirt in the same general area as my hoodie. Oh shit, I missed this chest. It's – um, less hairy than it used to be, because he had to shave for swim team, but it still looks just as nice. I run my hands over him and he groans. I take this as encouragement, and roll my hips up against his. He's hard too.

"Fuck," he says, and he starts toying with the edge of my shirt, fumbling more than Craig usually would because we're both high off our asses. I finally decide to help him, gripping my shirt at the hem and tugging it away.

Craig leans down so that our chests press together, already sticky from sweat. He kisses down my collar bone, biting and licking. He whispers something – "So pretty," – I think that this is funny, because nobody has ever called me _pretty_ and meant it like Craig does. And he doesn't exactly hand out compliments.

Craig takes both of my hands and with care, he removes the mittens. He kisses the bandages, his eyes shuttering closed as he does. He says to me, "I am so sorry, Tweek. So so sorry." He holds my hands against his face. I've never seen him look like that, so reverent and genuinely sad at the same time. That's okay, I want to tell him. You weren't the one that cut them up. I did. And I still love you, don't worry. In place of those words, I lean up and kiss his forehead, before letting my bandaged hands fall back to my sides.

We rub up against each other, pressing our bodies as close as we can through our jeans. Craig rolls forward over and over in tiny thrusts, gasping involuntarily. He strokes my hair and kisses my face.

"Tweek," he says, "I wanna top."

I can't help but chuckle. I say, "Good. Let's do it."

And still, even though we've fucked about a billion times, Craig has his Craig-type-awkwardness come over him as he unbuttons my jeans and pulls them down my thighs so that he has easier access. His brows crunch together in concentration, and he says, "You have to tell me if I do something wrong."

And like I always say to him, I say, "You won't do anything wrong."

Craig pulls my cock out of my boxers and pumps his hand over it lazily. Christ, but I turn into a puddle at his touch. I've always admired his hands. They're much nicer than mine, smoother even though they're calloused.

As his moves his hand rhythmically, Craig mashes his lips against my neck and sucks. I'm delighted at the prospect of having Craig-given hickeys again, since the last of them have faded away. I like having sex-related bruises on me. I like that Craig likes to give them to me, all over my neck and chest. They're always so pretty and tender, and they make me think of Craig's mouth, which is one of my many favorite things about him. He kisses down my torso, stopping sometimes to scrape his teeth over skin, and making me writhe.

Then, he takes me into his mouth.

He's never done that before. I gasp at the contact, tugging his hair – maybe too hard. He makes a muffled whining noise, but keeps on. He's unpracticed and clumsy, but Jesus Christ, I don't care. His mouth is hot and wet and fucking _amazing._ And whatever, anything that Craig does is perfect in my book. As his head bobs up and over me, I feel sensation build. I try to tamp it down, but it doesn't work. I've been a little sexually starved. I come over his cheek.

"Gah – sorry!" I exclaim helplessly.

Craig snorts at me and wipes his cheek with the tips of his fingers. He presses two damp, salty kisses to my lips before making quick work of pulling my jeans down the rest of the way, taking my underwear with them. He pulls back to do the same to his own bottoms. I don't think I've ever seen anything sexier than Craig stripping off his clothes. Already, I start to harden, as he backs up onto his knees, unzips his jeans, and wriggles out of them.

Craig runs his knuckles over the side of my jaw and says, "I have to, uh, get you ready, right?"

"Just a little," I say, "I'll be fine. Here." I take his fingers and kiss his fingertips, before running my tongue along two of them, sucking softly. I guide his hand and say, "There."

He still looks nervous. I love reducing him to that nervousness, but he doesn't ever need to feel that way with me. I've told him. So, I nudge at his wrist with my mostly-immobile hand, and he slides a single finger inside me.

"Ungh, fuck," I mumble. I wish I could grip him. I wish that I could clutch at his shoulders and dig my nails into his skin, but I can't. It's almost like my hands are tied up. I'm helpless under him and I'll just submit to what he decides to do. When he adds a second finger, I truly melt into a Tweek-puddle under his touch. Fuck fuck fuck. He brushes my prostate and I buck against him, crying out his name in a keening tone.

"Did I –" He starts.

"Yeah," I whine, grinding against his hand.

Craig bites his tongue in his focus, and brushes it again.

"Shit, _yes,_" I moan, my breathing choppy and haggard. I can't wait to have him inside me. I've been waiting for what feeling like fucking _forever_ for him to be confident enough to top.

He thrusts his hand in and out and then asks, "Are you ready."

"Jesus Christ, _please_," I sweep an inviting hand over myself, woozy with weed and pleasure and loving Craig and holy Jesus, hell, fucking, damn Christ, I can't even fucking comprehend my own joy.

Craig spits in his hand and slicks it over his cock. Unfortunately, it's all we've got in the way of lubrication, but I can take it. I feel his hover near. He tangles one hand in my blond hair and uses the other guide himself into my body. Craig lets out a strangled moan once he's locked all the way inside me. He grunts and pulls back a second later and thrusts forward again harder the second time.

"Rough," I find myself mumbling. I don't know why, since I can't grab onto him like I'd like to. I just want him to have his way with me.

Craig obliges. We work up a harried, solid rhythm. With every thrust forward, we make the BMW tilt slightly to the left, and with each withdraw, it straightens back out with a squeak. Craig uses his arms, braced on either side of my head, to leverage himself, thrusting deeper when I demand it. I've never been more glad for his strong arms. I can tell that he's starting to tip over the edge. He removes one of his hands from beside me and uses it to run up and down my dick, with no particular rhyme to it, just crazed movement.

We come in near unison, him inside me, and me all over my own abdomen. For several minutes we stay pushed up against each other, him still inside my body, cheeks pressed together. I have a feeling that I didn't make it out of this without beard burn all over my face. When he runs his lips against my cheek, it tingles.

He reluctantly withdraws and says, "We should go back."

"Yeah, I have work tonight," I sigh, not wanting to put my clothes back.

"And I have swim practice," he mutters, "But I'll come visit you after I'm done."

"If you wear that ugly sweater, I'll make your drink for free," I say.

Craig punches me lightly in the arm, and I cackle.

We clean ourselves up with fast food napkins and pull our clothes back on leisurely. Craig has to help me with some of mine, namely buttoning my jeans and zipping my hoodie – I _can_ manage those on my own, but it takes a long time, Besides, I love watching him help me get dressed. It makes me feel all smug.

Then Craig and I drive the car back to the school, laughing a little about how Token's going to react to the smell of weed and sex that permeates the seats. Craig says that he'll just buy Token a car freshener and tell him to get the fuck over it.

I live for moments like this. Moments where I'm completely immersed in calm. It nearly never happens, but Craig sparks the seconds of peace in me like he was born doing it. Granted, he also causes the most stress that I have ever felt in the entirety of my seventeen years of age. He was, and probably will continue to be, the reason why I question entering relationships in the first place, but these instants, these remind me why I torture myself with the fighting and bickering and general crap we pull on each other. I love our highs, and those highs remind me that I can deal with the lows.

He may be a closeted-nerd asshole, and I may be a neurotic caffeine addict, but fuck it.

We love each other.

_Fin_

**o.o.o.o**

**So, this is the last chapter. Still debating over whether or not it needs an epilogue, but I don't think that it does. Anyway, I want to give a very formal, very grateful thank you to all the people that have read, reviewed, favorited and alerted this story. You guys encouraged me and made my writing better every step of the way. I hope that, whether you just started reading or stuck with this from the very beginning, will tell me your thoughts. **

**And, as always, thank you to the wonderful people that give me reviews and help my writing every day: lucy sinclair, ObanesHarvest, Cynical B. Itch, Wendlekins, Mallory, theyellowsky, NightmareMyLove, friendlyfaceseverywhere, Reverse Psychology, animegafan123, Virivie, blobblab, SomeoneCMary, sephyroth19, R.R. Miaera, FalloutAngel, KirstenTheDestroyer, TheAwesome15, and Sunshine-aki. **

**And I know, I did two chapter tracks in a row by the same artist. But. It just fit so well. D:**

**Alternative track, however: These Are the Things – Black Box Recorder.**


	19. Ending Credits: Closer to Fine

**Ending Credits: Closer to Fine – Indigo Girls**

"Jesus Christ, we look like weird, fancy clones of ourselves," I say, peering into the mirror in Token's bathroom. The hardest part of our ensembles to put together was the ties. Neither of us knew how to ties, and so we had to interrupt Token and Red in the midst of a heavy makeout (that looked like it was on the edge of going someplace else entirely, fucking gross) to get Token to teach us how to tie them.

"Doe the world 'google' mean anything to you two assholes?" was Token's first response, as he straightened his v-neck and rebuckled his belt.

Craig flipped him off and I managed to stammer out an apology. Why hadn't we thought of that? I felt stupid. But still, because Token is more accommodating that he probably should be, he hurriedly shows us how to knot a half-Windsor.

My hands, though much better after a few months of healing, are still stiff and difficult, so Craig tied mine for me.

That's how we ended up where we are now – about to head to Craig's house for dinner. Thomas Tucker begrudgingly invited us over last week while we were sitting in Harbucks. I'd been on my break, but Craig came to visit me for those short fifteen minutes. I don't know how they knew that we'd be around or if it was just coincidence, but I guess Mr. Tucker is maybe trying to relinquish his antiquated politics.

At least, he hopefully is.

Craig is nervous. He's pretending that he's not, which he should know better than to do, because I know Craig from the inside out (He wouldn't admit that, but still). He keeps staring at his reflection in the mirror and fucking with things that aren't messed up, like fixing his tie for the seventeenth time, or straightening his hat, which he refuses to go without.

"Ngh - Stop worrying," I say, even though I am worried as fuck. Last time I was in the presence of Mr. Tucker, things didn't go well, you'll recall. I slip my arms around Craig from behind and squeeze.

The embrace was meant to comfort him, but I end up clinging. I'm sure he can feel my heart beating erratically against his back. I've had like six cups of Token's fancy rich people coffee, and it's agitating me, I know, but the taste is comforting and I could really use another cup. Particularly if it was spiked with Bailey's.

Fuck, no. _I _was the one that told Craig that we weren't allowed to go to dinner at his family's house in any less-than-sober state. He wanted to get stoned. Maybe we should get stoned.

Shit.

Jesus Christ.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"Tweek, you're freaking me out," he says. Though stated in monotone, I know we're both fucked up over this. He's scared because he doesn't want to be rejected. Actually, that's why I'm scared too, selfishly because I think that if this doesn't go well, Craig is gonna flip shit again and we'll have another Teacup Apocalypse 2011.

"I'm sorry, sorry," I whine, dragging my hands through my hair, which I had been carefully attempting to arrange into some semblance of neatness. "Fuck," I mutter, smoothing it back into place.

It was Ruby that suggested we dress up – apparently they're dressing up to. We look nice, me in green and Craig in blue, but we definitely don't look like ourselves. I don't even dress like this for church. I don't know the last time that these dress pants have seen daylight. At least I'm still wearing my beaten-up Vans, and Craig is still in his dirty converse. Turns out the last time that either of us had worn fancy shoes was back before puberty struck and our feet grew like weeds.

The ties are alright, I suppose. It turns out the Red is pretty crafty – she decorated vintage 1950's silk ties with fabric paint and gave them to us as a surprise – mine has Lambtron from Chinpokomon, and Craig's has Yoda on it. They're awesomely tacky.

Unfortunately, no matter how trussed up I am, I can always mess it up. This situation definitely qualifies as too much pressure for me. I've started to fuck up my hair, which I spent a great deal of time attempting to flatiron (there is now a burn on my forehead). It's already sticking up on one side. So, in trying not to fuck up anything further, I start running the edge of my thumbnail around my cuticles, picking quietly so that Craig won't hear me doing it.

He does anyway.

"Stop that," Craig mutters, moving my hands apart.

After I got the stitches out, they look mostly okay. There's a little bit of scarring, and I still dry them out with constant marshmallow hand sanitizer. Craig doesn't seem to mind, though. He loves the smell of it, probably because he is a freak of nature. I think that Craig still gets sad about my hands, even if he won't say it. He traces my scars a lot when he's thinking, like a subconscious thing. He lifts my hands to his face now, holding them so they rest on each cheek, and leans up to kiss me. He's nervous too. I can tell. I've gotten good at reading Craig. Well, I think I have. Or maybe he just cares less about upholding his precious _reputation_ around me.

Craig checks the watch fastened around his wrists and remarks, "We should probably go." His house is only a couple minutes down the road, but I think Craig and I both need time to steel ourselves against whatever this dinner might entail ("Steeling ourselves" will probably involve me hyperventilating and Craig trying to get me to calm the fuck down, even if he's doing the same thing on the inside).

We don't bother saying goodbye to Token since he's otherwise occupied. Craig just takes the keys to the BMW (which he isn't supposed to – especially if I am also going to be the car with Craig – and Token has made that clear, but Craig never listens).

"We look really stupid," I mutter. I fidget with the Lambtron tie around my neck and sigh uncomfortably.

Craig agrees, "We've never looked stupider." Says the one who will wear his R2D2 sweater upon his boyfriend's request.

"We're going to die," I say, taking in a rattled breath. I stick my hand in my mouth and nibble on the end of my thumb.

"We're not going to die," Craig says. He very forcefully removes my hand from my mouth and tugs me closer. He kisses my palm. He doesn't look at me as he says, "We might die."

Oh shit. He's way more freaked out than I thought he was. That does fucking _nothing_ to fix my own mood, and I find myself feeling like I need to throw up. Jesus Christ. This sucks. It sucks so much. Why aren't the Tuckers just like my parents? Why couldn't they just treat being gay like a normal thing and buy Craig Teen Scene magazines with Aaron Carter on the cover? Okay, maybe not. No. Being gay is normal, but my parents aren't. Nobody should be like my parents, because they're just as weird as I am, just less...jumpy.

Craig leans over and kisses me, tugging me forward so he has better access. I make a _mmph_ noise and shove his hat back so that I can play with his hair. He doesn't mind, right? His hair is gonna be under the hat, so who cares if I mess it up?

Craig leans into me and we end up falling back. The parking brake is digging into my back, but I'm too nervous about this dinner to care, and kissing Craig seems like the only thing besides getting totally plastered that will keep us _both_ calm enough not to bail. He tastes like spearmint.

Oh, _shit._

Craig breaks off the kiss and stares down at me, "Did you just spring one?"

"No!" I deny fervently, though it's a little self-incriminating when I use my hands to cover the protrusion in the front of my dress pants.

"That is definitely a boner," he says.

"No it isn't," I deny.

"You're retarded," he says.

"You're an asshole," I say back.

I don't want to fight now! What the fuck are we doing? I lean up and press a close-mouthed his to his lips. I say, "But you're my asshole." I pluck his hat off of where it's sitting on his seat and pull it back onto Craig's head, sparing a second kiss before adding, "We'll look bad if we're late."

"We already look like we fucked and put ourselves back together," he says, voice surly. He's kind of right. We're a lot more rumpled than we would have been if we'd skipped the impromptu makeout session. And those things have got to stop happening in Token's BMW, for Christ's sake, or we're going to get in trouble with Token again.

We exchange one last glance before Craig starts the car and we're off. I can tell I look anxious. Craig doesn't look nervous but I know that he is, because when he's nervous, he looks even more serious than usual.

As he puts the car into reverse, I put my hand on top of his.

Into the fray, I suppose.

But I think it'll be okay.

Even if we do look stupid.

**o.o.o.o**

**As always, a giant thank you to the reviewers: hopesterocks, Andymin, tsuki-shitsuji, Virivie, TheAwesome15, lucy sinclair, toolazytologin (Bahaha lolol), Reverse Psychology, KirstenTheDestroyer, zimgr2, animegafan123, Mallory, prettyoddrydonfan, Kayakokitty, conversefreak3, R.R. Miaera, blobblab, MariePierre, WizerdBeards, ArisuXMehla381, ObanesHarvest, and friendlyfaceseverywhere. **

**Thank you to all the wonderful people that have read this fic. You guys are awesome, and I hope that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm sure I'll see some of you again when I start my Style fic. ;)**


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